THE  LEE  SHORE 


R.  MACAULAY 


THE  LEE  SHORE 


BY 

R.  MACAULAY 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1912 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


TO 

P.  R. 


2137086 


That  division,  the  division  of  those  who  have 
and  those  who  have  not,  runs  so  deep  as  almost 
to  run  to  the  bottom. 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST     ......    «    >    •«    ..      1 

CHAPTEE  II 
THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER  ......     -.     ,.     18 

CHAPTEE  III 
THE  HOPES ..,    ,.,    v    -.     .     37 

CHAPTEE  IV 
THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER     ...... •    ..    ...     .     50 

CHAPTEE  V 

THE  SPLENDID  MORNING    ....    r.,    ...    ,..    .    61' 

CHAPTEE  VI 

HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  THE  BOARDERS  .     «    .„    ...    lfc    74 

CHAPTEE  VII 

DIANA,  ACTION,  AND  LORD  EVELYN  .     .     .    ,.     .     88 

CHAPTEE  VIII 
PETER  UNDERSTANDS      .     .     .     .     .    „    „    .     .  104 

CHAPTEE  IX 
THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE 123 

CHAPTEE  X 
THE  Loss  OP  A  PROFESSION  .  .  133 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

THE  Loss  OF  AN  IDEA 145 

CHAPTER  XII 

THE  Loss  OF  A  GOBLET  AND  OTHER  THINGS  .     .     .  159 

CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  Loss  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE  ......  175 

CHAPTER  XIV 
PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY  .......     ,.-     .  190 

CHAPTER  XV 
THE  Loss  OF  A  WIFE 204 

CHAPTER  XVI 
A  LONG  WAY 220 

CHAPTER  XVII 
MISCHANCES  IN  THE  RAIN 229 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  BREAKING-POINT .  240 

CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  NEW  LIFE 255 

CHAPTER  XX 
THE  LAST  Loss 268 

CHAPTER  XXI 
ON  THE  SHORE  .  284 


THE  LEE  SHORE 


THE  LEE  SHORE 

CHAPTEE  I 

A   HEUEDITAEY    BEQUEST 

DURING  the  first  week  of  Peter  Margerison's  first 
term  at  school,  Urquhart  suddenly  stepped,  a  radiant 
figure  on  the  heroic  scale,  out  of  the  kaleidoscopic  maze 
of  bemusing  lights  and  colours  that  was  Peter's  vision 
of  his  new  life. 

Peter,  seeing  Urquhart  in  authority  on  the  football 
field,  asked,  "  Who  is  it  2  "  and  was  told,  "  Urquhart, 
of  course,"  with  the  implication  "  Who  else  could  it 
be?" 

"  Oh,"  Peter  said,  and  blushed.  Then  he  was  told, 
"  Standing  right  in  Urquhart's  way  like  that !  Urqu- 
hart doesn't  want  to  be  stared  at  by  all  the  silly  little 
kids  in  the  lower-fourth."  But  Urquhart  was,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  probably  used  to  it, 

So  that  was  Urquhart  Peter  Margerison  hugged 
secretly  his  two  pieces  of  knowledge;  so  secret  they 
were,  and  so  enormous,  that  he  swelled  visibly  with 
them;  there  seemed  some  danger  that  they  might  even 
burst  him.  That  great  man  was  Urquhart.  Urquhart 
was  that  great  man.  Put  so,  the  two  pieces  of  knowl- 
edge may  seem  to  have  a  certain  similarity;  there  was 
in  effect  a  delicate  discrimination  between  them.  If 
not  wholly  distinct  one  from  the  other,  they  were  any- 
how two  separate  aspects  of  the  same  startling  and 
rather  magnificent  fact. 

1 


2  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Then  there  was  another  aspect:  did  Urquhart  know 
that  he,  Margerison,  was  in  fact  Margerison?  He 
showed  no  sign  of  such  knowledge;  but  then  it  was 
naturally  not  part  of  his  business  to  concern  himself 
with  silly  little  kids  in  the  lower-fourth.  Peter  never 
expected  it. 

But  a  few  days  after  that,  Peter  came  into  the  lava- 
tories and  found  Urquhart  there,  and  Urquhart  looked 
round  and  said,  "  I  say,  you  —  Margerison.  Just  cut 
down  to  the  field  and  bring  my  cap.  You'll  find  it  by 
the  far  goal,  Smithson's  ground.  You  can  bring  it  to 
the  lavatories  and  hang  it  on  my  peg.  Cut  along 
quick,  or  you'll  be  late." 

Peter  cut  along  quick,  and  found  the  velvet  tasselled 
thing  and  brought  it  and  hung  it  up  with  the  care  due 
to  a  thing  so  precious  as  a  fifteen  cap.  The  school  bell 
had  clanged  while  he  was  down  on  the  field,  and  he  was 
late  and  had  lines.  That  didn't  matter.  The  thing 
that  had  emerged  was,  Urquhart  knew  he  was  Margeri- 
son. 

After  that,  Urquhart  did  not  have  occasion  to  honour 
Margerison  with  his  notice  for  some  weeks.  It  was,  of 
course,  a  disaster  of  Peter's  that  brought  them  into 
personal  relations.  Throughout  his  life,  Peter's  re- 
lations were  apt  to  be  based  on  some  misfortune  or 
other ;  he  always  had  such  bad  luck.  Vainly  on  Litany 
Sundays  he  put  up  his  petition  to  be  delivered  "  from 
lightning  and  tempest,  from  plague,  pestilence,  and 
famine,  from  battle  and  murder,  and  from  sudden 
death."  Disasters  seemed  to  crowd  the  roads  on  which 
he  walked;  so  frequent  were  they  and  so  tragic  that 
life  could  scarcely  be  lived  in  sober  earnest ;  it  was,  for 
Peter  the  comedian,  a  tragi-comic  farce.  Circum- 
stances provided  the  tragedy,  and  temperament  the  farce. 

Anyhow,  one  day  Peter  tumbled  on  to  the  point  of 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  3 

his  right  shoulder  and  lay  on  his  face,  his  arm  crooked 
curiously  at  his  side,  remarking  that  he  didn't  think 
he  was  hurt,  only  his  arm  felt  funny  and  he  didn't 
think  he  would  move  it  just  yet.  People  pressed  about 
him ;  suggested  carrying  him  off  the  field ;  asked  if  he 
thought  it  was  broken;  asked  him  how  he  felt  now; 
asked  him  all  manner  of  things,  none  of  which  Peter 
felt  competent  to  answer.  His  only  remark,  delivered 
in  a  rather  weak  and  quavering  voice,  was  to  the  effect 
that  he  would  walk  directly,  only  he  would  like  to  stay 
where  he  was  a  little  longer,  please.  He  said  it  very 
politely.  It  was  characteristic  of  Peter  Margerison 
that  misfortune  always  made  him  very  polite  and  pleas- 
ant in  his  manners,  as  if  he  was  saying,  "  I  am  sorry 
to  be  so  tiresome  and  feeble:  do  go  on  with  your  own 
businesses,  you  more  fortunate  and  capable  people,  and 
never  mind  me." 

As  they  stood  in  uncertainty  about  him,  someone 
said,  "  There's  Urquhart  coming,"  and  Urquhart  came. 
He  had  been  playing  on  another  ground.  He  said, 
"  What  is  it  ?  "  and  they  told  him  it  was  Margerison, 
his  arm  or  his  shoulder  or  something,  and  he  didn't 
want  to  be  moved.  Urquhart  pushed  through  the  crowd 
that  made  way  for  him,  and  bent  over  Margerison  and 
felt  his  arm  from  the  shoulder  to  the  wrist,  and  Mar-v 
gerison  bit  at  the  short  grass  that  was  against  his  face. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Urquhart.  "I  wanted  to 
see  if  it  was  sprained  or  broken  anywhere.  It's  not; 
it's  just  a  put-out  shoulder.  I  did  that  once,  and  they 
put  it  in  on  the  field;  it  was  quite  easy.  It  ought  to 
be  done  at  once,  before  it  gets  stiff."  He  turned  Peter 
over  on  his  back,  and  they  saw  that  he  was  pale,  and 
his  forehead  was  muddy  where  it  had  pressed  on  the 
ground,  and  wet  where  perspiration  stood  on  it.  Ur- 
quhart was  unlacing  his  own  boot, 


4  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  I'm  going  to  haul  it  in  for  you,"  he  told  Peter. 
"  It's  quite  easy.  It'll  hurt  a  bit,  of  course,  but  less 
now  than  if  it's  left.  It'll  slip  in  quite  easily,  because 
you  haven't  much  muscle,"  he  added,  looking  at  the 
frail,  thin,  crooked  arm.  Then  he  put  his  stockinged 
foot  beneath  Peter's  arm-pit,  and  took  the  arm  by  the 
wrist  and  straightened  it  out.  The  other  thin  arm  was 
thrown  over  Peter's  pale  face  and  working  mouth. 
The  muddy  forehead  could  be  seen  getting  visibly 
wetter.  Urquhart  threw  himself  back  and  pulled,  with 
a  long  and  strong  pull.  Sharp  gasps  came  from  be- 
neath the  flung-up  left  arm,  through  teeth  that  were 
clenched  over  a  white  jersey  sleeve.  The  thin  legs 
writhed  a  little.  Urquhart  desisted,  breathing  deeply. 

"  Sorry,"  he  said ;  "  one  more'll  do  it."  The  one 
more  was  longer  and  stronger,  and  turned  the  gasps 
into  semi-groans.  But  as  Urquhart  had  predicted,  it 
did  it. 

"  There,"  said  Urquhart,  resting  and  looking  pleased, 
as  he  always  did  when  he  had  accomplished  something 
neatly.  "Heard  the  click,  didn't  you?  It's  in  all 
right.  Sorry  to  hurt  you,  Margerison ;  you  were  jolly 
sporting,  though.  Now  I'm  going  to  tie  it  up  before 
we  go  in,  or  it'll  be  out  again." 

So  he  tied  Peter's  arm  to  Peter's  body  with  his  neck 
scarf.  Then  he  took  up  the  small  light  figure  in  his 
arms  and  carried  it  from  the  field. 

"  Hurt  much  now  ?  "  he  asked,  and  Peter  shook  an 
untruthful  head  and  grinned  an  untruthful  and  pain- 
ful grin.  Urquhart  was  being  so  inordinately  decent 
to  him,  and  he  felt,  even  in  his  pain,  so  extremely 
flattered  and  exalted  by  such  decency,  that  not  for  the 
world  would  he  have  revealed  the  fact  that  there  had 
been  a  second  faint  click  while  his  arm  was  being  bound 
to  his  side,  and  an  excruciating  jar  that  made  him  sus- 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  3 

pect  the  abominable  thing  to  be  out  again.  He  didn't 
know  how  the  mechanism  worked,  but  he  was  sure  that 
the  thing  Urquhart  had  with  such  labour  hauled  in 
had  slipped  out  and  was  disporting  itself  at  large  in 
unlawful  territory.  He  said  nothing,  a  little  because 
he  really  didn't  think  he  could  quite  make  up  his  mind 
to  another  long  and  strong  pull,  but  chiefly  because  of 
Urquhart  and  his  immense  decency.  Success  was 
Urquhart's  role;  one  did  not  willingly  imagine  him 
failing.  If  heroes  fail,  one  must  not  let  them  know  it. 
Peter  shut  his  eyes,  and,  through  his  rather  sick  vision 
of  trespassing  rabbits  popping  in  and  out  through  holes 
in  a  fence,  knew  that  Urquhart's  arms  were  carrying 
him  very  strongly  and  easily  and  gently.  He  hoped 
he  wasn't  too  heavy.  He  would  have  said  that  he 
could  walk,  only  he  was  rather  afraid  that  if  he  said 
anything  he  might  be  sick.  Besides,  he  didn't  really 
want  to  walk ;  his  shoulder  was  hurting  him  very  much. 
He  was  so  white  about  the  cheeks  and  lips  that  Urqu- 
hart thought  he  had  fainted. 

After  a  little  while,  Urquhart  was  justified  in  his 
supposition;  it  was  characteristic  of  Peter  to  convert, 
as  promptly  as  was  feasible,  any  slight  error  of  Urqu- 
hart's into  truth.  So  Peter  knew  nothing  when  Ur- 
quhart carried  him  indoors  and  delivered  him  into  other 
hands.  He  opened  his  eyes  next  on  the  doctor,  who 
was  untying  his  arm  and  cutting  his  sleeve  and  saying 
cheerfully,  "  All  right,  young  man,  all  right." 

The  next  thing  he  said  was,  "  I  was  told  it  had  been 
put  in." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter  languidly.  "  But  it  came  out 
again,  I  think." 

"  So  it  seems.  Didn't  they  discover  that  down 
there?" 

Peter  moved  his  head  limply,  meaning  "  No." 


6  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  But  you  did,  did  you  ?  Well,  why  didn't  you  say 
so?  Didn't  want  to  have  it  hauled  at  again,  I  sup- 
pose ?  Well,  we'll  have  it  in  directly.  You  won't  feel 
it  much." 

So  the  business  was  gone  through  again,  and  this 
time  Peter  not  only  half  but  quite  groaned,  because 
it  didn't  matter  now. 

When  the  thing  was  done,  and  Peter  rigid  and 
swathed  in  bed,  the  doctor  was  recalled  from  the  door 
by  a  faint  voice  saying,  "  Will  you  please  not  tell  any- 
one it  came  out  again  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "     The  doctor  was  puzzled. 

"Don't  know,"  said  Peter,  after  finding  that  he 
couldn't  think  of  a  reason.  But  then  he  gave  the  true 
one. 

"  Urquhart  thought  he'd  got  it  in  all  right,  that's 
all." 

"  Oh."  The  doctor  was  puzzled  still.  "  But  that's 
Urquhart's  business,  not  yours.  It  wasn't  your  fault, 
you  know." 

"  Please,"  said  Peter  from  the  bed.  "  Do  you 
mind?" 

The  doctor  looked  and  saw  feverish  blue  lamps  alight 
in  a  pale  face,  and  soothingly  said  he  did  not  mind. 
"  Your  shoulder,  no  one  else's,  isn't  it  ? "  he  admitted. 
"  Now  you'd  better  go  to  sleep ;  you'll  be  all  right  di- 
rectly, if  you're  careful  not  to  move  it  or  lie  on  it  or 
anything." 

Peter  said  he  would  be  careful.  He  didn't  at  all 
want  to  move  it  or  lie  on  it  or  anything.  He  lay  and 
had  waking  visions  of  the  popping  rabbits.  But  they 
might  pop  as  they  liked;  Peter  hid  a  better  thing  in 
his  inmost  soul.  TJrquhart  had  said,  "  Sorry  to  hurt 
you,  Margerison.  You  were  jolly  sporting,  though." 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  7 

In  the  night  it  seemed  incredible  that  Urquhart  had 
stooped  from  Valhalla  thus  far;  that  Urquhart  had 
pulled  in  his  arm  with  his  own  hands  and  called  him 
sporting  to  his  face.  The  words,  and  the  echo  of  the 
soft,  pleasant,  casual  voice,  with  its  unemphasised  in- 
tonations, spread  lifting  wings  for  him,  and  bore  him 
above  the  aching  pain  that  stayed  with  him  through 
the  night. 

Next  morning,  when  Peter  was  wishing  that  the 
crumbs  of  breakfast  that  got  between  one's  back  and 
one's  pyjamas  were  less  sharp-cornered,  and  wondering 
why  a  dislocated  shoulder  should  give  one  an  aching 
bar  of  pain  across  the  forehead,  and  feeling  very  sad 
because  a  letter  from  home  had  just  informed  him  that 
his  favourite  guinea-pig  had  been  trodden  on  by  the 
gardener,  Urquhart  came  to  see  him. 

Urquhart  said,  "  Hullo,  Margerison.  How  are  you 
this  morning  ? "  and  Peter  said  he  was  very  nearly  all 
right  now,  thanks  very  much.  He  added,  "  Thanks 
awfully,  Urquhart,  for  putting  it  in,  and  seeing  after 
me  and  everything." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right."  Urquhart's  smile  had  the 
same  pleasant  quality  as  his  voice.  He  had  never 
smiled  at  Peter  before.  Peter  lay  and  looked  at  him, 
the  blue  lamps  very  bright  in  his  pale  face,  and  thought 
what  a  jolly  voice  and  face  Urquhart  had.  Urquhart 
stood  by  the  bed,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  looked 
rather  pleasantly  down  at  the  thin,  childish  figure  in 
pink  striped  pyjamas.  Peter  was  fourteen,  and  looked 
less,  being  delicate  to  frailness.  Urquhart  had  been 
rather  shocked  by  his  extreme  lightness.  He  had  also 
been  pleased  by  his  pluck ;  hence  the  pleasant  expression 
of  his  eyes.  He  was  a  little  touched,  too,  by  the  un- 
mistakable admiration  in  the  over-bright  blue  regard. 


8  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Urquhart  was  not  unused  to  admiration;  but  here  was 
something  very  whole-hearted  and  rather  pleasing. 
Margerison  seemed  rather  a  nice  little  kid. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  and  still  in  his  pleasant,  soft, 
casual  tones,  Urquhart  dragged  Peter's  immense  secret 
into  the  light  of  day. 

"  How  are  your  people  ?  "  he  saifl. 

Peter  stammered  that  they  were  quite  welL 

"  Of  course,"  Urquhart  went  on,  "  I  don't  remember 
your  mother;  I  was  only  a  baby  when  my  father  died. 
But  I've  always  heard  a  lot  about  her.  Is  she  .  .  ." 

"  She's  dead,  you  know,"  broke  in  Peter  hastily, 
lest  Urquhart  should  make  a  mistake  embarrassing  to 
himself.  "  A  long  time  ago,"  he  added,  again  anxious 
to  save  embarrassment. 

"  Yes  — ;  oh  yes."  Urquhart,  from  his  manner, 
might  or  might  not  have  known. 

"  I  live  with  my  uncle,"  Peter  further  told  him,  thus 
delicately  and  unobstrusively  supplying  the  information 
that  Mr.  Margerison  too  was  dead.  He  omitted  to  men- 
tion the  date  of  this  bereavement,  having  always  a  deli- 
cate sense  of  what  did  and  did  not  concern  his  hearers. 
The  decease  of  the  lady  who  had  for  a  brief  period 
been  Lady  Hugh  Urquhart,  might  be  supposed  to  be  of 
a  certain  interest  to  her  stepson;  that  of  her  second 
husband  was  a  private  family  affair  of  the  Margerisons. 

(The  Urquhart-Margerison  connection,  which  may 
possibly  appear  complicated,  was  really  very  simple, 
and  also  of  exceedingly  little  importance  to  anyone  but 
Peter;  but  in  case  anyone  feels  a  desire  to  have  these 
things  elucidated,  it  may  here  be  mentioned  that  Peter's 
mother  had  made  two  marriages,  the  first  being  with 
Urquhart's  father,  Urquhart  being  already  in  existence 
at  the  time ;  the  second  with  Mr.  Margerison,  a  clergy- 
man, who  was  also  already  father  of  one  son,  and  be- 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  9 

came  Peter's  father  later.  Put  so,  it  sounds  a  little 
difficult,  chiefly  because  they  were  all  married  so  fre- 
quently and  so  rapidly,  but  really  is  simplicity  itself.) 

"  I  live  with  my  uncle  too,"  Urquhart  said,  and  the 
fact  formed  a  shadowy  bond.  But  Peter's  tone  had 
struck  a  note  of  flatness  that  faintly  indicated  a  lack 
of  enthusiasm  as  to  the  menaga  This  note  was,  to 
Peter's  delicately  attuned  ears,  absent  from  Urquhart's 
voice.  Peter  wondered  if  Lord  Hugh's  brother  (sup- 
posing it  to  be  a  paternal  uncle)  resembled  Lord  Hugh. 
To  resemble  Lord  Hugh,  Peter  had  always  understood 
(till  three  years  ago,  when  his  mother  had  fallen  into 
silence  on  that  and  all  other  topics)  was  to  be  of  a 
charm.  .  .  .  One  spoke  of  it  with  a  faint  sigh.  And 
yet  of  a  charm  that  somehow  had  lacked  something,  the 
intuitive  Peter  had  divined;  perhaps  it  had  been  too 
splendid,  too  fortunate,  for  a  lady  who  had  loved  all 
small,  weak,  unlucky  things.  Anyhow,  not  long  after 
Lord  Hugh's  death  (he  was  killed  out  hunting)  she  had 
married  Mr.  Margerison,  the  poorest  clergyman  she 
could  find,  and  the  most  devoted  to  the  tending  of  the 
unprosperous. 

Peter  remembered  her  —  compassionate,  delicate, 
lovely,  full  of  laughter,  with  something  in  the  dance 
of  her  vivid  dark-blue  eyes  that  hinted  at  radiant  and 
sad  memories.  She  had  loved  Lord  Hugh  for  a  glori- 
ous and  brief  space  of  time.  The  love  had  perhaps 
descended,  a  hereditary  bequest,  with  the  deep  blue  eyes, 
to  her  son.  Peter  would  have  understood  the  love ;  the 
thing  he  would  not  have  understood  was  the  feeling 
that  had  flung  her  on  the  tide  of  reaction  at  Mr.  Mar- 
gerison's  feet.  Mr.  Margerison  was  a  hard  liver  and  a 
tremendous  giver.  Both  these  things  had  come  to  mean 
a  great  deal  to  Sylvia  Urquhart  —  much  more  than 
they  had  meant  to  the  girl  Sylvia  Hope. 


io  THE  LEE  SHORE 

And  hence  Peter,  who  lay  and  looked  at  Lord  Hugh 
TJrquhart's  son  with  wide,  bright  eyes.  With  just  such 
eyes  —  only  holding,  let  us  hope,  an  adoration  more 
masked  —  Sylvia  Hope  had  long  ago  looked  at  Lord 
Hugh,  seeing  him  beautiful,  delicately  featured,  pale, 
and  fair  of  skin,  built  with  a  strong  fineness,  and  smil- 
ing with  pleasant  eyes.  Lord  Hugh's  beauty  of  person 
and  charm  of  manner  had  possibly  (not  certainly) 
meant  more  to  Sylvia  Hope  than  his  son's  meant  to  her 
son;  and  his  prowess  at  football  (if  he  had  any)  had 
almost  certainly  meant  less.  But,  apart  from  the 
glamour  of  physical  skill  and  strength  and  the  official 
glory  of  captainship,  the  same  charm  worked  on  mother 
and  son.  The  soft,  quick,  unemphasised  voice,  with 
the  break  of  a  laugh  in  it,  had  precisely  the  same  dis- 
turbing effect  on  both. 

"  Well,"  Urquhart  was  saying,  "  when  will  they  let 
you  play  again?  You  must  buck  up  and  get  all  right 
quickly.  ...  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  made  a  pretty 
decent  three-quarter  sometime.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  use 
your  arm  as  soon  as  you  can,  you  know,  or  it  gets  stiff, 
and  then  you  can't,  and  that's  an  awful  bore.  .  .  . 
Hurt  like  anything  when  I  hauled  it  in,  didn't  it? 
But  it  was  much  better  to  do  it  at  once." 

"  Oh,  much,"  Peter  agreed. 

"  How  does  it  feel  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right.  I  don't  feel  it  much.  I  say,  do  you 
think  I  ought  to  use  it  at  once,  in  case  it  gets  stiff  ?  " 
Peter's  eyes  were  a  little  anxious ;  he  didn't  much  want 
to  use  it  at  once. 

But  Urquhart  opined  that  this  would  be  over-great 
haste.  He  departed,  and  his  last  words  were,  "  You 
must  come  to  breakfast  with  me  when  you're  up  again." 

Peter  lay,  glorified,  and  thought  it  all  over.  Urqu- 
hart knew,  then;  he  had  known  from  the  first.  He 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  II 

had  known  when  he  said,  "  I  say,  you,  Margerison,  just 
cut  down  to  the  field  .  .  ." 

Not  for  a  moment  did  it  seem  at  all  strange  to  Peter 
that  Urquhart  should  have  had  this  knowledge  and 
given  no  sign  till  now.  What,  after  all,  was  it  to  a 
hero  that  the  family  circle  of  an  obscure  individual 
such  as  he  should  have  momentarily  intersected  the 
hero's  own  orbit?  School  has  this  distinction  —  fam- 
ilies take  a  back  place;  one  is  judged  on  one's  own  in- 
dividual merits.  Peter  would  much  rather  think  that 
Urquhart  had  come  to  see  him  because  he  had  put  his 
arm  out  and  Urquhart  had  put  it  in  (really  though, 
only  temporarily  in)  than  because  his  mother  had  once 
been  Urquhart's  stepmother. 

Peter's  arm  did  not  recover  so  soon  as  Urquhart's 
sanguineness  had  predicted.  Perhaps  he  began  taking 
precautions  against  stiffness  too  soon;  anyhow  he  did 
not  that  term  make  a  decent  three-quarter,  or  any  sort 
of  a  three-quarter  at  all.  It  always  took  Peter  a  long 
time  to  get  well  of  things;  he  was  easy  to  break  and 
hard  to  mend  —  made  in  Germany,  as  he  was  fre- 
quently told.  So  cheaply  made  was  he  that  he  could 
perform  nothing.  Defeated  dreams  lived  in  his  eyes; 
but  to  light  them  there  burned  perpetually  the  blue  and 
luminous  lamps  of  undefeated  mirth,  and  also  an  im- 
mense friendliness  for  life  and  mankind  and  the  de- 
lightful world.  Like  the  young  knight  Agenore,  Peter 
the  unlucky  was  of  a  mind  having  no  limits  of  hope. 
Over  the  blue  and  friendly  eyes  that  lit  the  small  pale 
face,  the  half  wistful  brows  were  cocked  with  a  kind 
of  whimsical  and  gentle  humour,  the  same  humour  that 
twitched  constantly  at  the  corners  of  his  wide  and  flexi- 
ble mouth.  Peter  was  not  a  beautiful  person,  but  one 
liked,  somehow,  to  look  at  him  and  to  meet  his  half- 
enquiring,  half -amused,  wholly  friendly  and  sympa- 


12  THE  LEE  SHORE 

i 

thetic  regard.  By  the  end  of  his  first  term  at  school, 
he  found  himself  unaccountably  popular.  Already  he 
was  called  "  Margery "  and  seldom  seen  by  himself. 
He  enjoyed  life,  because  he  liked  people  and  they  liked 
him,  and  things  in  general  were  rather  jolly  and  very 
funny,  even  with  a  dislocated  shoulder.  Also  the  great 
Urquhart  would,  when  he  remembered,  take  a  little 
notice  of  Peter  —  enough  to  inflate  the  young  gentle- 
man's spirit  like  a  blown-out  balloon  and  send  him  soar- 
ing skywards,  to  float  gently  down  again  at  his  leisure. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  term,  Peter's  half-brother 
Hilary  came  to  visit  him.  Hilary  was  tall  and  slim 
and  dark  and  rather  beautiful,  and  he  lived  abroad 
and  painted,  and  he  told  Peter  that  he  was  going  to  be 
married  to  a  woman  called  Peggy  Callaghan.  Peter, 
who  had  always  admired  Hilary  from  afar,  was  rather 
sorry.  The  woman  Peggy  Callaghan  would,  he  vaguely 
believed,  come  between  Hilary  and  his  family;  and  al- 
ready there  were  more  than  enough  of  such  obstacles  to 
intercourse.  But  at  tea-time  he  saw  the  woman,  and 
she  was  large  and  fair  and  laughing,  and  called  him,  in 
her  rich,  amused  voice  "  little  brother  dear,"  and  he  did 
not  mind  at  all,  but  liked  her  and  her  laugh  and  her 
mirthful,  lazy  eyes. 

Peter  was  a  large-minded  person;  he  did  not  mind 
that  Hilary  wore  no  collar  and  a  floppy  tie.  He  did 
not  mind  this  even  when  they  met  Urquhart  in  the 
street.  Peter  whispered  as  he  passed,  "  That's  Urqu- 
hart," and  Hilary  suddenly  stopped  and  held  out  his 
hand,  and  said  pleasantly,  "  I  am  glad  to  meet  you." 
Peter  blushed  at  that,  naturally  (for  Hilary's  cheek, 
not  for  his  tie),  and  hoped  that  Urquhart  wasn't  much 
offended,  but  that  he  understood  what  half-brothers  who 
lived  abroad  and  painted  were,  and  didn't  think  it  was 
Peter's  fault  Urquhart  shook  hands  quite  pleasantly, 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  13 

and  when  Hilary  added,  "  We  shared  a  stepmother,  you 
and  I ;  I'm  Peter's  half-brother,  you  know,"  he  amiably 
agreed.  Peter  hoped  he  didn't  think  that  the  Urquhart- 
Margerison  connection  was  being  strained  beyond  due 
bounds.  Hilary  said  further,  "  You've  been  very  good 
to  my  young  brother,  I  know,"  and  it  was  characteristic 
of  Peter  that,  even  while  he  listened  to  this  embarrass- 
ing remark,  he  was  free  enough  from  self-conscious- 
ness to  be  thinking  with  a  keen  though  undefined 
pleasure  how  extraordinarily  nice  to  look  at  both  Hilary 
and  Urquhart,  in  their  different  ways,  were.  (Peter's 
love  of  the  beautiful  matured  with  his  growth,  but  in 
intensity  it  could  scarcely  grow.)  Urquhart  was  say- 
ing something  about  had  luck  and  shoulders;  it  was 
decent  of  Urquhart  to  say  that.  In  fact,  things  were 
going  really  well  till  Hilary,  after  saying,  "  Good-bye, 
glad  to  have  met  you,"  added  to  it  the  afterthought, 
"  You  must  come  and  stay  at  my  uncle's  place  in  Sussex 
some  time.  Mustn't  he,  Peter  ? "  At  the  same  time 
—  fitting  accompaniment  to  the  over-bold  words  — 
Peter  saw  a  half-crown,  a  round,  solid,  terrible  half- 
crown,  pressed  into  Urquhart's  unsuspecting  hand. 
Oh,  horror!  Which  was  the  worse,  the  invitation  or 
the  half-crown  ?  Peter  could  never  determine.  Which 
was  the  more  flagrant  indecency  —  that  he,  young 
Margerison  of  the  lower  fourth,  should,  without  any  en- 
couragement whatever,  have  asked  Urquhart  of  the 
sixth,  captain  of  the  fifteen,  head  of  his  house,  to  come 
and  stay  with  him;  or  that  his  near  relative  should 
have  pressed  half-a-crown  into  the  great  Urquhart's 
hand  as  if  he  expected  him  to  go  forthwith  to  the  tuck- 
shop  at  the  corner  and  buy  tarts?  Peter  wriggled, 
scarlet  from  his  collar  to  his  hair. 

Urquhart  was  a  polite  person.     He  took  the  half- 
crown.     He   murmured   something   about   being   very 


I4  THE  LEE  SHORE 

glad.  He  even  smiled  his  pleasant  smile.  And  Peter, 
entirely  unexpectedly  to  himself,  did  what  he  always 
did  in  the  crises  of  his  singularly  disastrous  life  —  he 
exploded  into  a  giggle.  So,  some  years  later,  he 
laughed  helplessly  and  suddenly,  standing  among  the 
broken  fragments  of  his  social  reputation  and  his  pro- 
fessional career.  He  could  not  help  it.  When  the 
worst  had  happened,  there  was  nothing  else  one  could 
do.  One  laughed  from  a  sheer  sense  of  the  complete- 
ness of  the  disaster.  Peter  had  a  funny,  extremely 
amused  laugh;  hardly  the  laugh  of  a  prosperous  per- 
son; rather  that  of  the  unhorsed  knight  who  acknowl- 
edges the  utterness  of  his  defeat  and  finds  humour  in 
the  very  fact.  It  was  as  if  misfortune  —  and  this  mis- 
fortune of  the  half-crown  and  the  invitation  is  not  to 
be  under-estimated  —  sharpened  all  the  faculties,  never 
blunt,  by  which  he  apprehended  humour.  So  he  looked 
from  Hilary  to  Urquhart,  and,  mentally,  from  both  to 
his  cowering  self,  and  exploded. 

Urquhart  had  passed  on.  Hilary  said,  "  What's  the 
matter  with  you?"  and  Peter  recovered  himself  and 
said  "  Nothing."  He  might  have  cried,  with  Miss 
Evelina  Anvill,  "  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  shocked  to 
death!"  He  did  not.  He  did  not  even  say,  "Why 
did  you  stamp  us  like  that  ? "  He  would  not  for  the 
world  have  hurt  Hilary's  feelings,  and  vaguely  he  knew 
that  this  splendid,  unusual  half-brother  of  his  was  in 
some  ways  a  sensitive  person. 

Hilary  said,  "  The  TJrquharts  ought  to  invite  you  to 
stay.  The  connection  is  really  close.  I  believe  your 
mother  was  devoted  to  that  boy  as  a  baby.  You'd  like 
to  go  and  stay  there,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

Peter  looked  doubtful.  He  was  nervous.  Suppose 
Hilary  met  Urquhart  again.  .  .  .  Dire  possibilities 
opened.  Next  time  it  might  be  "  Peter  must  go  and 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  15 

stay  at  your  uncle's  place  in  Berkshire."  That  would 
be  worse.  Yes,  the  worst  had  not  happened,  after  all. 
TJrquhart  might  have  met  Peggy.  Peggy  would  in  that 
case  have  said,  "  You  nice  kind  boy,  you've  been  such 
a  dear  to  this  little  brother  of  ours,  and  I  hear  you  and 
these  boys  used  to  share  a  mamma,  so  you're  really 
brothers,  and  so,  of  course,  my  brother  too;  and  what 
a  nice  face  you've  got !  "  There  were  in  fact,  no  limits 
to  what  Peggy  might  say.  Peggy  was  outrageous. 
But  it  was  surprising  how  much  one  could  bear  from 
her.  Presumably,  Peter  used  to  reflect  in  after  years, 
when  he  had  to  bear  from  her  a  very  great  deal  indeed, 
it  was  simply  by  virtue  of  her  being  Peggy.  It  was 
the  same  with  Hilary.  They  were  Hilary  and  Peggy, 
and  one  took  them  as  such.  Indeed,  one  had  to,  as  there 
was  certainly  no  altering  them.  And  Peter  loved  both 
of  them  very  much  indeed. 

When  Peter  went  home  for  the  holidays,  he  found 
that  Hilary's  alliance  with  the  woman  Peggy  Callaghan 
was  not  smiled  upon.  But  then  none  of  Hilary's  proj- 
ects were  ever  smiled  upon  by  his  uncle,  who  always 
said,  "  Hilary  must  do  as  he  likes.  But  he  is  acting 
with  his  usual  lack  of  judgment."  For  four  years  he 
had  been  saying  so,  and  he  said  it  again  now.  To 
Hilary  himself  he  further  said,  "  You  can't  afford  a 
wife  at  all.  You  certainly  can't  afford  Miss  Callaghan. 
You  have  no  right  whatever  to  marry  until  you  are 
earning  a  settled  livelihood.  You  are  not  of  the  tem- 
perament to  make  any  woman  consistently  happy.  Miss 
Callaghan  is  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  doctor,  and  a 
Catholic." 

"  It  is,"  said  Hilary,  "  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
religions.  If  I  could  bring  myself  under  the  yoke  of 
any  creed  at  all  .  .  ." 

"  Just  so,"  said  his  uncle,  who  was  a  disagreeable 


16  THE  LEE  SHORE 

man ;  "  but  you  can't,"  and  Hilary  tolerantly  left  it  at 
that,  merely  adding,  "  There  will  be  no  difficulty.  We 
have  arranged  all  that.  Peggy  is  not  a  bigot.  As  to 
the  rest,  I  think  we  must  judge  for  ourselves.  I  shall 
be  earning  more  now,  I  imagine." 

Hilary  always  imagined  that;  imagination  was  his 
strong  point.  His  initial  mistake  was  to  imagine  that 
he  could  paint.  He  did  not  think  that  he  had  yet 
painted  anything  very  good;  but  he  knew  that  he  was 
just  about  to  do  so.  He  had  really  the  artist's  eye,  and 
saw  keenly  the  beauty  that  was,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  beyond  his  grasp.  His  uncle,  who  knew  noth- 
ing about  art,  could  have  told  him  that  he  would  never 
be  able  to  paint,  simply  because  he  had  never  been, 
and  would  never  be,  able  to  work.  That  gift  he  wholly 
lacked.  Besides,  like  young  Peter,  he  seemed  consti- 
tutionally incapable  of  success.  A  wide  and  quick  re- 
ceptiveness,  a  considerable  power  of  appreciation  and 
assimilation,  made  such  genius  as  they  had ;  the  power 
of  performance  they  desperately  lacked;  their  enter- 
prises always  let  them  through.  Failure  was  the 
tragi-comic  note  of  their  unprosperous  careers. 

However,  Hilary  succeeded  in  achieving  marriage 
with  the  cheerful  Peggy  Callaghan,  and  having  done 
so  they  went  abroad  and  lived  an  uneven  and  rather 
exciting  life  of  alternate  squalor  and  luxury  in  one 
story  of  what  had  once  been  a  glorious  roseate  home 
of  Venetian  counts,  and  was  now  crumbling  to  pieces 
and  let  in  flats  to  the  poor.  Hilary  and  his  wife  were 
most  suitably  domiciled  therein,  environed  by  a  splendid 
dinginess  and  squalor,  pretentious,  tawdry,  grandiose, 
and  superbly  evading  the  common.  Peggy  wrote  to 
Peter  in  her  large  sprawling  hand,  "  You  dear  little 
brother,  I  wish  you'd  come  and  live  with  us.  We  have 
such  fun.  .  .  ."  That  was  the  best  of  Peggy.  Al- 


A  HEREDITARY  BEQUEST  17 

ways  and  everywhere  she  had  such  fun.  She  added, 
"  Give  my  sisterly  regards  to  the  splendid  hero  who 
shared  your  mamma,  and  tell  him  we  too  live  in  a 
palace."  That  was  so  like  Peggy,  that  sudden  and 
amused  prodding  into  the  most  secret  intimacies  of  one's 
emotions.  Peggy  always  discerned  a  great  deal,  and 
was  blind  to  a  great  deal  more. 


CHAPTEK  II 

THE    CHOICE    OF    A    CAEEEE 

HILARY,  stretching  his  slender  length  wearily  in 
Peter's  fat  arm-chair,  was  saying  in  his  high,  sweet 
voice: 

"  It's  the  merest  pittance,  Peter,  yours  and  mine. 
The  Robinsons  have  it  practically  all.  The  Robinsons. 
Really,  you  know  .  .  ." 

The  sweet  voice  had  a  characteristic,  vibrating  break 
of  contempt.  Hilary  had  always  hated  the  Robinsons, 
who  now  had  it  practically  all.  Hilary  looked  pale 
and  tired;  he  had  been  settling  his  dead  uncle's  affairs 
for  the  last  week.  The  Margerisons'  uncle  had  not 
been  a  lovable  man;  Hilary  could  not  pretend  that  he 
had  loved  him.  Peter  had,  as  far  as  he  had  been  per- 
mitted to  do  so;  Peter  found  it  possible  to  be  attached 
to  most  of  the  people  he  came  across;  he  was  a  person 
of  catholic  sympathies  and  gregarious  instincts.  Even 
when  he  heard  how  the  Robinsons  had  it  practically  all, 
he  bore  no  resentment  either  against  his  uncle  or  the 
Robinsons.  Such  was  life.  And  of  course  he  and 
Hilary  did  not  make  wise  use  of  money ;  that  they  had 
always  been  told. 

"  You'll  have  to  leave  Cambridge,"  Hilary  told  him. 
"  You  haven't  enough  to  keep  you  here.  I'm  sorry, 
Peter;  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  begin  and  try  to  earn 
a  living.  But  I  can't  imagine  how,  can  you?  Has 
any  paying  line  of  life  ever  occurred  to  you  as  pos- 
sible?" 

"  Never,"  Peter  assured  him.     "  But  I've  not  had 

18 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER          19 

time  to  think  it  over  yet,  of  course.  I  supposed  I 
should  be  up  here  for  two  years  more,  you  see." 

At  Hilary's  "  You'll  have  to  leave  Cambridge,"  his 
face  had  changed  sharply.  Here  was  tragedy  indeed. 
Bother  the  Eobinsons.  .  .  .  But  after  a  moment's 
pause  for  recovery  he  answered  Hilary  lightly  enough. 
Such,  again,  was  life.  A  marvellous  two  terms  and  a 
half,  and  then  the  familiar  barred  gate.  It  was  an  old 
story. 

Hilary's  thoughts  turned  to  his  own  situation.  They 
never,  to  tell  the  truth,  dwelt  very  long  on  anybody 
else's. 

"  We,"  he  said,  "  are  destitute  —  absolutely.  It's 
simply  frightful,  the  wear  and  strain  of  it.  Peggy,  of 
course,"  he  added  plaintively,  "  is  not  a  good  manager. 
She  likes  spending,  you  know  —  and,  there's  so  seldom 
anything  to  spend,  poor  Peggy.  So  life  is  disappoint- 
ing for  her.  The  babies,  I  needn't  say,  are  growing 
up  little  vagabonds.  And  they  will  bathe  in  the  canals, 
which  isn't  respectable,  of  course;  though  one  is  re- 
lieved in  a  way  that  they  should  bathe  anywhere." 

"  If  he  was  selling  any  pictures,"  Peter  reflected, 
"  he  would  tell  me,"  so  he  did  not  enquire.  Peter  had 
tact  as  to  his  questions.  One  rather  needed  it  with 
Hilary.  But  he  wondered  vaguely  what  the  babies 
had,  at  the  moment,  to  grow  up  upon,  even  as  little 
vagabonds.  Presently  Hilary  enlightened  him. 

"  I  edit  a  magazine,"  he  said,  and  Peter  perceived 
£hat  he  was  both  proud  and  ashamed  of  the  fact.  "  At 
least  I  am  going  to.  A  monthly  publication  for  the 
entertainment  and  edification  of  the  Englishman  in 
Venice.  Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart  is  financing  it.  You 
know  he  has  taken  up  his  residence  in  Venice  ?  A 
pleasant  crank.  Venice  is  his  latest  craze.  He  buys 
glass.  And,  indeed,  most  other  things.  He  shops  all 


20  THE  LEE  SHORE 

day.  It's  a  mania.  When  he  was  young  I  believe  he 
had  a  very  fine  taste.  It's  dulled  now  —  a  fearful 
life,  as  they  say.  Well,  his  last  fancy  is  to  run  a  maga- 
zine, and  I'm  to  edit  it.  It's  to  be  called  (  The  Gem.' 
'  Gemm'  Adriatica,'  you  know,  and  all  that ;  besides,  it's 
more  or  less  appropriate  to  the  contents.  It's  to  be 
largely  concerned  with  what  Lord  Evelyn  calls  '  charm- 
ing things.'  Things  the  visiting  Englishman  likes  to 
hear  about,  you  know.  It  aims  at  being  the  Complete 
Tourist's  Guide.  I  have  to  get  hold  of  people  who'll 
write  articles  on  the  Duomo  mosaics,  and  the  galleries 
and  churches  and  palaces  and  so  on,  and  glass  and  lace 
and  anything  else  that  occurs  to  them,  in  a  way  cal- 
culated to  appeal  to  the  cultivated  British  resident  or 
visitor.  I  detest  the  breed,  I  needn't  say.  Pampered 
hotel  Philistines  pretending  to  culture  and  profaning 
the  sanctuaries,  Ruskin  in  hand.  Ruskin.  Really, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Well,  anyhow,  my  mission  in  life  for 
the  present  is  to  minister  to  their  insatiable  appetite 
for  rhapsodising  over  what  they  feel  it  incumbent  on 
them  to  admire." 

"  Rather  fascinating,"  Peter  said.  It  was  a  pity 
that  Hilary  always  so  disliked  any  work  he  had  to  do. 
Work  —  a  terrific,  insatiable  god,  demanding  its  hide- 
ous human  sacrifices  from  the  dawn  of  the  world  till 
twilight  —  so  Hilary  saw  it.  The  idea  of  being  hor- 
rible, all  the  concrete  details  into  which  it  was  trans- 
lated were  horrible  too. 

"  If  it  was  me,"  said  Peter,  "  I  should  minister  to 
my  own  appetite,  no  one  else's.  Bother  the  cultivated 
resident.  He'd  jolly  well  have  to  take  what  I  gave  him. 
And  glass  and  mosaic  and  lace  —  what  glorious  things 
to  write  about.  ...  I  rather  love  Lord  Evelyn,  don't 
you." 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         21 

Peter  remembered  him  at  Astleys,  in  Berkshire  — 
Urquhart's  uncle,  tall  and  slim  and  exquisite,  with 
beautiful  waistcoats  and  white,  attractive,  nervous 
hands,  that  played  with  a  monocle,  and  a  high-pitched 
voice,  and  a  whimsical,  prematurely  worn-out  face,  and 
a  habit  of  screwing  up  short-sighted  eyes  and  saying, 
with  his  queer,  closed  enunciation,  "  Quate  charming. 
Quate."  He  had  always  liked  Peter,  who  had  been  a 
gentle  and  amused  boy  and  had  reminded  him  of  Sylvia 
Hope,  lacking  her  beauty,  but  with  a  funny  touch  of 
her  charm.  Peter  had  loved  the  things  he  loved,  too 
—  the  precious  and  admirable  things  he  had  collected 
round  him  through  a  recklessly  extravagant  life.  Peter 
at  fifteen,  in  the  first  hour  of  his  first  visit  to  Astleys, 
had  been  caught  out  of  the  incredible  romance  of  being  in 
Urquhart's  home  into  a  new  marvel,  and  stood  breath- 
less before  a  Bow  rose  bowl  of  soft  and  mellow  paste, 
ornamented  with  old  Japan  May  flowers  in  red  and  gold 
and  green,  and  dated  "  New  Canton,  1750." 

"  Lake  it  ? "  a  high  voice  had  asked  behind  his  shoul- 
der. "  Lake  the  sort  of  thing  ?  "  and  there  was  the 
tall,  funny  man  swaying  on  his  heels  and  screwing  his 
glass  into  his  eye  and  looking  down  on  Peter  with 
whimsical  interest.  Little  Peter  had  said  shyly  that 
he  did. 

"  Prefer  chaney  to  cricket  ?  "  asked  Urquhart's  uncle, 
with  his  agreeable  laugh  that  was  too  attractive  to  be 
described  as  a  titter,  a  name  that  its  high,  light  quality 
might  have  suggested.  But  to  that  Peter  said  "  No." 
He  had  been  asked  to  Astleys  for  the  cricket  week;  he 
was  going  to  play  for  Urquhart's  team.  Not  that  he 
was  any  good;  but  to  scrape  through  without  disgrace 
(of  course  he  didn't)  was  at  the  moment  the  goal  of 
life. 


22  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Lord  Evelyn  had  seemed  disappointed.  "  If  I  could 
get  you  away  from  Denis,"  he  said,  "  I'll  be  bound 
cricket  wouldn't  be  in  the  '  also  rans.' ' 

And  at  that  moment  Denis  had  sauntered  up,  and 
Peter's  worshipping  regard  had  turned  from  Lord 
Evelyn's  rose  bowl  to  his  nephew,  and  it  was  Bow  china 
that  was  not  among  the  also  rans.  At  that  too  Lord 
Evelyn  had  laughed,  with  his  queer,  closed  mirth. 

"  Keep  that  till  you  fall  in  love,"  he  had  inwardly 
admonished  Peter's  back  as  the  two  walked  away  to- 
gether. "  I  daresay  she  won't  deserve  it  any  better  — 
but  that's  a  law  of  nature,  and  this  is  sheer  squander- 
ing. My  word,  how  that  boy  does  lake  things  —  and 
people !  "  After  all,  it  was  hardly  for  any  Urquhart 
to  condemn  squandering, 

That  was  Lord  Evelyn,  as  he  lived  in  Peter's  memory 
—  a  generous,  whimsical,  pleasant  crank,  touched  with 
his  nephew's  glamour  of  charm. 

When  Peter  said,  "  I  rather  love  him,  don't  you," 
Hilary  replied,  "  He's  a  fearful  old  spendthrift." 

Peter  demurred  at  the  old.  It  jarred  with  one's  con- 
ceptions of  Lord  Evelyn.  "  I  don't  suppose  he's  much 
over  fifty,"  he  surmised. 

"  No,  I  daresay,"  Hilary  indifferently  admitted. 
"  He's  gone  the  pace,  of  course.  Drugs,  and  all  that. 
He  soon  won't  have  a  sound  faculty  left.  Oh,  I'm 
attached  to  him;  he's  entertaining,  and  one  can  really 
talk  to  him,  which  is  exceptional  in  Venice,  or,  indeed, 
anywhere  else.  Is  his  nephew  still  up  here,  by  the 
way  ? " 

"  Yes.     He's  going  down  this  term." 

"  You  see  a  good  deal  of  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Off  and  on,"  said  Peter. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hilary,  "  you're  almost  half- 
brothers.  I  do  feel  that  the  TJrquharts  owe  us  some- 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER          23 

thing,  for  the  sake  of  the  connexion.  I  shall  talk  to 
Lord  Evelyn  about  you.  He  was  very  fond  of  your 
mother.  ...  I  am  very  sorry  about  you,  Peter.  We 
must  think  it  over  sometime,  seriously." 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room  in  his 
nervous,  restless  way,  looking  at  Peter's  things.  Peter's 
room  was  rather  pleasing.  Everything  in  it  had  the 
air  of  being  the  selection  of  a  personal  and  discriminat- 
ing affection.  There  was  a  serene  self-confidence  about 
Peter's  tastes ;  he  always  knew  precisely  what  he  liked, 
irrespective  of  what  anyone  else  liked.  If  he  had  hap- 
pened to  admire  "  The  Soul's  Awakening "  he  would 
-beyond  doubt  have  hung  a  copy  of  it  in  his  room.  What 
he  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  hung  in  his  room  very  suc- 
cessfully expressed  an  aspect  of  himself.  The  room 
conveyed  restfulness,  and  an  immense  love,  innate 
rather  than  grafted,  of  the  pleasures  of  the  eye.  The 
characteristic  of  restfulness  was  conveyed  partly  by  the 
fat  green  sofa  and  the  almost  superfluous  number  of 
extremely  comfortable  arm-chairs,  and  Peter's  attitude 
in  one  of  them.  On  a  frame  in  a  corner  a  large  piece 
of  embroidery  was  stretched  —  a  cherry  tree  in  blossom 
coming  to  slow  birth  on  a  green  serge  background. 
Peter  was  quite  good  at  embroidery.  He  carried  pieces 
of  it  (mostly  elaborately  designed  book-covers)  about  in 
his  pockets,  and  took  them  out  at  tea-parties  and  (sur- 
reptitiously) at  lectures.  He  said  it  was  soothing,  like 
smoking;  only  smoking  didn't  soothe  him,  it  made  him 
feel  ill.  On  days  when  he  had  been  doing  tiresome  or 
boring  or  jarring  things,  or  been  associating  with  a 
certain  type  of  person,  he  did  a  great  deal  of  em- 
broidery in  the  evenings,  because,  as  he  said,  it  was  such 
a  change.  The  embroidery  stood  for  a  symbol,  a  type 
of  the  pleasures  of  the  senses,  and  when  he  fell  to  it 
with  fervour  beyond  the  ordinary,  one  understood  that 


24  THE  LEE  SHORE 

he  had  been  having  a  surfeit  of  the  displeasures  of  the 
senses,  and  felt  need  to  restore  the  balance. 

Hilary  stopped  before  a  piece  of  extremely  shabby, 
frayed  and  dingy  tapestry,  that  had  the  appearance 
of  having  once  been  even  dingier  and  shabbier.  It 
looked  as  if  it  had  lain  for  years  in  a  dusty  corner  of 
a  dusty  old  shop,  till  someone  had  found  it  and  been 
pleased  by  it  and  taken  possession,  loving  it  through  its 
squalor. 

"  Rather  nice,"  said  Hilary.  "  Really  good,  isn't 
it?" 

Peter  nodded.  "  Gobelin,  of  the  best  time.  Some- 
one told  me  that  afterwards.  When  I  bought  it,  I  only 
knew  it  was  nice.  A  man  wanted  to  buy  it  from  me 
for  quite  a  lot." 

Hilary  looked  about  him.  "  You've  got  some  good 
things.  How  do  you  pick  them  up  ?  " 

"  I  try,"  said  Peter,  "  to  look  as  if  I  didn't  care 
whether  I  had  them  or  not.  Then  they  let  me  have 
them  for  very  little.  The  man  I  got  that  tapestry  from 
didn't  know  how  nice  it  was.  I  did,  but  I  cheated 
him." 

"  Well,"  Hilary  said,  passing  his  hand  wearily  over 
his  forehead,  "  I  must  go  to  your  detestable  station  and 
catch  my  train.  .  .  .  I've  got  a  horrible  headache. 
The  strain  of  all  this  is  frightful." 

He  looked  as  if  it  was.  His  pale  face,  nervous  and 
strained,  stabbed  at  Peter's  affection  for  him.  Peter's 
affection  for  Hilary  had  always  been  and  always  would 
be  an  unreasoning,  loyal,  unspoilably  tender  thing. 

He  went  to  the  station  to  help  Hilary  to  catch  his 
train.  The  enterprise  was  a  failure;  it  was  not  a  job 
at  which  either  Margerison  was  good.  They  had  to 
wait  in  the  detestable  station  for  another.  The  annoy- 
ance of  that  (it  is  really  an  abnormally  depressing  sta- 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         25 

tion)  worked  on  Hilary's  nervous  system  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  might  have  flung  himself  on  the  line  and 
so  found  peace  from  the  disappointments  of  life,  had 
not  Peter  been  at  hand  to  cheer  him  up.  There  were 
certainly  points  ahout  young  Peter  as  a  companion  for 
the  desperate. 

Peter,  having  missed  hall,  as  well  as  Hilary's  train, 
went  back  to  his  room  and  put  an  egg  on  to  boil.  He 
lay  back  in  his  most  comfortable  chair  to  watch  it;  he 
needed  comfort  rather.  He  was  going  down.  It  had 
been  so  jolly  —  and  it  was  over. 

He  had  not  got  much  to  show  for  the  good  time  he 
had  had.  Physically,  he  was  more  of  a  wreck  than 
he  had  been  when  he  came  up.  He  was  slightly  lame 
in  one  leg,  having  broken  it  at  football  (before  he  had 
been  forbidden  to  play)  and  had  it  badly  set.  He 
mended  so  badly  always.  He  was  also  at  the  moment 
right-handed  (habitually  he  used  his  left)  and  that  was 
motor  bicycling.  He  had  not  particularly  distinguished 
himself  in  his  work.  He  was  good  at  nothing  except 
diabolo,  and  not  very  good  at  that.  And  he  had  spent 
more  money  than  he  possessed,  having  drawn  lavishly 
on  his  next  year's  allowance.  He  might,  in  fact,  have 
been  described  as  an  impoverished  and  discredited 
wreck.  But  for  such  a  one  he  had  looked  very  cheer- 
ful, till  Hilary  had  said  that  about  going  down.  That 
was  really  depressing. 

Peter,  as  the  egg  boiled,  looked  back  rather  wistfully 
over  his  year.  It  seemed  a  very  long  time  ago  since  he 
had  come  up.  His  had  been  an  undistinguished  ar- 
rival ;  he  had  not  come  as  a  sandwich  man  between  two 
signboards  that  labelled  his  past  career  and  explained 
his  path  that  was  to  be;  he  had  been  unaddressed  to 
any  destination.  The  only  remark  on  his  vague  and 
undistinguished  label  had  perhaps  been  of  the  nature 


26  THE  LEE  SHORE 

of  "  Brittle.  This  side  up  with  care."  He  had  no 
fame  at  any  game;  he  did  not  row;  he  was  neither  a 
sporting  nor,  in  any  marked  degree,  a  reading  man. 
He  did  a  little  work,  but  he  was  not  very  fond  of  it  or 
very  good.  The  only  things  one  could  say  of  him  were 
that  he  seemed  to  have  an  immense  faculty  of  enjoy- 
ment and  a  considerable  number  of  friends,  who  knew 
him  as  Margery  and  ate  muffins  and  chocolates  between 
tea  and  dinner  in  his  rooms. 

He  had  been  asked  at  the  outset  by  one  of  these 
friends  what  sort  of  things  he  meant  to  "  go  in  for." 
He  had  said  that  he  didn't  exactly  know.  "  Must  one 
go  in  for  anything,  except  exams.  ?  "  The  friend,  who 
was  vigorously  inclined,  had  said  that  one  certainly 
ought.  One  could  —  he  had  measured  Peter's  frail 
physique  and  remembered  all  the  things  he  couldn't  do 
—  play  golf.  Peter  had  thought  that  one  really 
couldn't;  it  was  such  a  chilly  game.  Well,  of  course, 
one  might  speak  at  the  Union,  said  the  persevering 
friend,  insisting,  it  seemed,  on  finding  Peter  a  career. 
"  Don't  they  talk  about  politics  ?  "  enquired  Peter.  "  I 
couldn't  do  that,  you  know.  I  don't  approve  of  poli- 
tics. If  ever  I  have  a  vote  I  shall  sell  it  to  the  highest 
female  bidder.  Fancy  being  a  Liberal  or  a  Conserva- 
tive, out  of  all  the  nice  things  there  are  in  the  world 
to  be!  There  are  health-fooders,  now.  I'd  rather  be 
that.  And  teetotallers.  A  man  told  me  he  was  a  tee- 
totaller to-day.  I'll  go  in  for  that  if  you  like,  because 
I  don't  much  like  wine.  And  I  hate  beer.  These  are 
rather  nice  chocolates  —  I  mean,  they  were." 

The  indefatigable  friend  had  further  informed  him 
that  one  might  be  a  Fabian  and  have  a  red  tie,  and 
encourage  the  other  Fabians  to  wash.  Or  one  might 
ride. 

"  One  might  — "  Peter  had  made  a  suggestion  of  his 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         27 

own  — "  ride  a  motor  bicycle.  I  saw  a  man  on  one  to- 
day ;  I  mean  he  had  been  on  it  —  it  was  on  him  at  the 
moment;  it  had  chucked  him  off  and  was  dancing  on 
him,  and  something  that  smelt  was  coming  out  of  a 
hole.  He  was  such  a  long  way  from  home ;  I  was  sorry 
about  it." 

His  friend  had  said,  "  Serve  him  right.  Brute,"  ex- 
pressing the  general  feeling  of  the  moment  about  men 
who  rode  motor  bicycles. 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  Peter  had  reflectively  said. 
"  They  must  get  such  an  awful  headache  first  —  and 
then  to  be  chucked  off  and  jumped  on  so  hard,  and  cov- 
ered with  the  smelly  stuff  —  and  then  to  have  to  walk 
home  dragging  it,  when  it's  deformed  and  won't  run  on 
its  wheels.  Unless,  of  course,  one  is  blown  up  into  little 
bits  and  is  at  rest.  .  .  .  But  it  is  so  awfully,  frightfully 
ugly,  to  look  at  and  to  smell  and  to  hear.  Like  your 
wallpaper,  you  know." 

Peter's  eyes  had  rested  contentedly  on  his  own  peace- 
ful green  walls.  He  really  hadn't  felt  in  the  least  like 
"  going  in  for  "  anything,  either  motor  bicycling  or  ex- 
aminations. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  just  footle,  then,"  his  friend  had 
summed  it  up,  and  left  him,  because  it  was  half- 
past  six,  and  they  had  dinner  at  that  strange  hour. 
That  was  why  they  were  able  to  run  it  into  their  tea, 
since  obviously  nothing  could  be  done  between,  even 
by  Peter's  energetic  friend.  This  friend  had  little  hope 
for  Peter.  Of  course,  he  would  just  footle;  he  always 
had.  But  one  was,  nevertheless,  rather  fond  of  him. 
One  would  like  him  to  do  things,  and  have  a  sporting 
time. 

,,  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Peter  gave  his  friend  an  agree- 
able surprise.  He  went  in,  or  attempted  to  go  in,  for 
a  good  many  things.  He  plunged  ardently  into  foot- 


28  THE  LEE  SHORE 

ball,  though  he  had  never  been  good,  and  though  he 
always  got  extremely  tired  over  it,  which  was  supposed 
to  be  bad  for  him,  and  frequently  got  smashed  up,  which 
he  knew  to  be  unpleasant  for  him.  This  came  to  an 
abrupt  end  half  way  through  the  term.  Then  he  took, 
quite  suddenly,  to  motor  bicycling.  All  this  is  merely 
to  say  that  the  incalculable  factor  that  sets  temperament 
and  natural  predilection  at  nought  had  entered  into 
Peter's  life.  Of  course,  it  was  absurd.  Urquhart,  be- 
ing what  he  was,  could  successfully  do  a  number  of 
things  that  Peter,  being  what  he  was,  must  inevitably 
come  to  grief  over.  But  still  he  indomitably  tried. 
He  even  profaned  the  roads  and  outraged  all  aesthetic 
fitness  in  the  endeavour,  clacking  into  the  country  upon 
a  hired  motor-bicycle  and  making  his  head  ache  badly 
and  getting  very  cold,  and  being  from  time  to  time 
thrown  off  and  jumped  upon  and  going  about  in  band- 
ages, telling  enquirers  that  he  supposed  he  must  have 
knocked  against  something  somewhere,  he  didn't  remem- 
ber exactly.  The  energetic  friend  had  been  caustic. 

"  I've  no  intention  of  sympathising  with  you,"  he 
had  remarked;  "because  you  deserve  all  you  get.1 
You  ass,  you  know  when  it's  possible  to  get  smashed 
up  over  anything  you're  safe  to  do  it,  so  what  on  earth 
do  you  expect  when  you  take  up  a  thing  like  this  ?  " 

"  Instant  death  every  minute,"  Peter  had  truly  re- 
plied. (His  nerves  had  been  a  little  shaken  by  his  last 
ride,  which  had  set  his  trouser-leg  on  fire  suddenly,  and 
nearly,  as  he  remarked,  burnt  him  to  death.)  "  But  I 
go  on.  I  expect  the  worst,  but  I  am  resigned.  The 
hero  is  not  he  who  feels  no  fear,  for  that  were  brutal 
and  irrational." 

"What  do  you  do  it  for?"  his  friend  had  queru- 
lously and  superfluously  demanded. 

"  It's  so  frightfully  funny,"  Peter  had  said,  reflect- 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         29 

ing,  "that  I  should  be  doing  it.  That's  why,  I  sup- 
pose. It  makes  me  laugh.  You  might  take  to  the 
fiddle  if  you  wanted  a  good  laugh.  I  take  to  my  motor- 
bicycle.  It's  the  only  way  to  cheer  oneself  up  when 
life  is  disappointing,  to  go  and  do  something  entirely 
ridiculous.  I  used  to  stand  on  my  head  when  I'd  been 
rowed  or  sat  upon,  or  when  there  was  a  beastly  wind; 
it  cheered  me  a  lot.  I've  given  that  up  now;  so  I 
motor-bicycle.  Besides,"  he  had  added,  "  you  said  I 
must  go  in  for  something.  You  wouldn't  like  it  if 
I  did  my  embroidery  all  day." 

But  on  the  days  when  he  had  been  motor-bicycling, 
Peter  had  to  do  a  great  deal  of  embroidery  in  the  even- 
ings, for  the  sake  of  the  change. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  need  it,"  a  friend  of  the  more 
aesthetically  cultured  type  remarked  one  evening,  find- 
ing him  doing  it.  "  You've  been  playing  round  with 
the  Urquhart-Fitzmaurice  lot  to-day,  haven't  you  ? 
Nice  man,  Fitzmaurice,  isn't  he?  I  like  his  tie-pins. 
You  know,  we  almost  lost  him  last  summer.  He  hung 
in  the  balance,  and  our  hearts  were  in  our  mouths.  But 
he  is  still  with  us.  You  look  as  if  he  had  been  very 
much  with  you,  Margery." 

Peter  looked  meditative  and  stitched.  "  Old  Fitz," 
he  murmured,  "  is  one  of  the  best.  A  real  sportsman. 
.  .  .  Don't,  Elmslie;  I  didn't  think  of  that,  I  heard 
Childers  say  it.  Childers  also  said,  l  By  Jove,  old  Fitz 
knocks  spots  out  of  'em  every  time,'  but  I  don't  know 
what  he  meant.  I'm  trying  to  learn  to  talk  like 
Childers.  When  I  can  do  that,  I  shall  buy  a  tie-pin 
like  Fitzmaurice's,  only  mine  will  be  paste.  Streater's 
is  paste;  he's  another  nice  man." 

"  He  certainly  is.  In  fact,  Margery,  you  really  are 
not  particular  enough  about  the  company  you  keep. 
You  shun  neither  the  over-bred  nor  the  under-bred. 


30  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Personally  I  affect  neither,  because  they  don't  amuse 
me.  You  embrace  both." 

"  Yes,"  Peter  mildly  agreed.  "  But  I  don't  embrace 
Streater,  you  know.  I  draw  the  line  at  Streater. 
Everyone  draws  the  line  at  Streater;  he's  of  the  baser 
sort,  like  his  tie-pins.  Wouldn't  it  be  vexing  to  have 
people  always  drawing  lines  at  you.  There'd  be  noth- 
ing you  could  well  do,  except  to  draw  one  at  them,  and 
they  wouldn't  notice  yours,  probably,  if  they'd  got 
theirs  in  first.  You  could  only  sneer.  One  can  always 
sneer.  I  sneered  to-day." 

"  You  can't  sneer,"  Elmslie  told  him  brutally ; 
"  and  you  can't  draw  lines ;  and  what  on  earth  you 
hang  about  with  so  many  different  sorts  of  idiots  for 
I  don't  know.  ...  I  think,  if  circumstances  absolutely 
compelled  me  to  make  bosom  friends  of  either,  I  should 
choose  the  under-bred  poor  rather  than  the  over-bred 
rich.  That's  the  sort  of  man  I've  no  use  for.  The  sort 
of  man  with  so  much  money  that  he  has  to  chuck  it  all 
about  the  place  to  get  rid  of  it.  The  sort  of  man  who 
talks  to  you  about  beagles.  The  sort  of  man  who  has  a 
different  fancy  waistcoat  for  each  day  of  the  week." 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  "  that's  nice.     I  wish  I  had." 

His  friend  turned  a  grave  regard  on  him.  "  The 
sort  of  man  who  rides  a  motor-bicycle.  .  .  .  You  really 
should,  Margery,"  he  went  on,  "  learn  to  be  more  fas- 
tidious. You  mustn't  let  yourself  be  either  dazzled  by 
fancy  waistcoats  or  sympathetically  moved  by  unclean 
collars.  Neither  is  interesting." 

"  I  never  said  they  were,"  Peter  said.  "  It's  the 
people  inside  them.  .  .  ." 

>  Peter,  in  brief,  was  a  lover  of  his  kind,  and  the  music 
life  played  to  him  was  of  a  varied  and  complex  nature. 
But,  looking  back,  it  was  easy  to  see  how  there  had 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER          31 

been,  running  through  all  the  variations,  a  dominant 
motive  in  the  piece. 

As  Peter  listened  to  the  boiling  of  his  egg,  and 
thought  how  hard  it  would  be  when  he  took  it  off,  the 
dominant  motive  came  in  and  stood  by  the  fire,  and 
looked  down  on  Peter.  He  jingled  things  in  his 
.pockets  and  swayed  to  and  fro  on  his  heels  like  his 
uncle  Evelyn,  and  he  was  slim  in  build,  and  fair  and 
pale  and  clear-cut  of  face,  and  gentle  and  rather  indif- 
ferent in  manner,  and  soft  and  casual  in  voice,  and  he 
was  in  his  fourth  year,  and  life  went  extremely  well 
with  him. 

"  It  boils,"  he  told  Peter,  of  the  egg. 

Peter  took  it  off  and  fished  it  out  with  a  spoon,  and 
began  rummaging  for  an  egg-cup  and  salt  and  marma- 
lade and  buns  in  the  locker  beneath  his  window  seat. 
Having  found  these  things,  he  composed  himself  in  the 
fat  arm-chair  to  dine,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  You  slacker,"  Urquhart  observed.  "  Well,  can  you 
come  to-morrow  ?  The  drag  starts  at  eleven." 

"  It's  quite  hard,"  said  Peter,  unreasonably  disap- 
pointed in  it.  "Oh,  yes,  rather;  I'll  come."  How 
short  the  time  for  doing  things  had  suddenly  become. 

Urquhart  remarked,  looking  at  the  carpet,  "  What  a 
revolting  mess.  Why  ?  " 

"  My  self -filling  bath,"  Peter  explained.  "  I  in- 
vented it  myself.  Well  —  it  did  fill  itself.  Quite 
suddenly  and  all  at  once,  you  know.  It  was  a  very 
beautiful  sight.  But  rather  unrestrained  at  present. 
I  must  improve  it.  ...  Oh,  this  is  my  last  term." 

"  Sent  down  ?  "  Urquhart  sympathetically  enquired. 
It  was  what  one  might  expect  to  happen  to  Peter. 

"  Destitute,"  Peter  told  him.  "  The  Eobinsons  have 
it  practically  all.  Hilary  told  me  to-day.  I  am 


32  THE  LEE  SHORE 

thrown  on  the  world.  I  shall  have  to  work.  Hilary- 
is  destitute  too,  and  Peggy  has  nothing  to  spend,  and 
the  babies  insist  on  bathing  in  the  canals.  Bad  luck  for 
us,  isn't  it.  Oh,  and  Hilary  is  going  to  edit  a  magazine 
called  '  The  Gem,'  for  your  uncle  in  Venice.  That 
seems  rather  a  nice  plan.  The  question  is,  what  am  I 
to  apply  my  great  gifts  to  ? " 

Urquhart  whistled  softly.  "  As  bad  as  all  that,  is 
it?"  - 

"  Quite  as  bad.  Worse  if  anything.  .  .  .  The  only 
thing  in  careers  that  I  can  fancy  at  the  moment  is  art 
dealing  —  picking  up  nice  things  cheap  and  selling  them 
dear,  you  know.  Only  I  should  always  want  to  keep 
them,  of  course.  If  I  don't  do  that  I  shall  have  to  live 
by  my  needle.  If  they  pass  the  Sweated  Industries 
Bill,  I  suppose  one  will  get  quite  a  lot.  It's  the  only 
Bill  I've  ever  been  interested  in.  My  uncle  was  ex- 
tremely struck  by  the  intelligent  way  I  took  notice  of 
it,  when  I  had  disappointed  him  so  much  about  Tariff 
Reform  and  Education." 

"  You'd  probably  be  among  the  unskilled  millions 
whom  the  bill  turns  out  of  work." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  unemployed,  and  march  with  a 
flag.  I  shall  rather  like  that.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  suppose 
somehow  one  manages  to  live,  doesn't  one,  whether 
one  has  a  degree  or  not.  And  personally  I'd  rather 
not  have  one,  because  it  would  be,  such  a  mortifying 
one.  Besides,"  Peter  added,  after  a  luminous  mo- 
ment of  reflection,  "  I  don't  believe  a  degree  really 
matters  much,  in  my  profession.  You  didn't  know 
I  had  a  profession,  I  expect;  I've  just  thought  of  it. 
I'm  going  to  be  a  buyer  for  the  Ignorant  Rich. 
Make  their  houses  liveable-in.  They  tell  me  what  they 
want  —  I  get  hold  of  it  for  them.  Turn  them  out  an 
Italian  drawing-room  —  Delia  Robbia  mantel-piece, 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         33 

Florentine  fire-irons,  Renaissance  ceiling,  tapestries  and 
so  on.  Things  they  haven't  energy  to  find  for  them- 
selves or  intelligence  to  know  when  they  see  them.  I 
love  finding  them,  and  I'm  practised  at  cheating.  One 
has  to  cheat  if  one's  poor  but  eager.  ...  A  poor  trade, 
but  my  own.  I  can  grub  about  low  shops  all  day,  and 
go  to  sales  at  Christie's.  What  fun." 

Urquhart  said,  "  You'd  better  begin  on  Leslie. 
You're  exactly  what  he  wants." 

"  Who's  Leslie  ?  "  Peter  was  eating  buns  and  mar- 
malade, in  restored  spirits. 

"  Leslie's  an  Ignorant  Rich.  He's  a  Hebrew.  His 
parents  weren't  called  Leslie,  but  never  mind.  Leslie 
rolls.  He  also  bounds,  but  not  aggressively  high.  One 
can  quite  stand  him;  in  fact,  he  has  his  good  points. 
He's  rich  but  eager.  Also  he  doesn't  know  a  good 
thing  when  he  sees  it.  He  lacks  your  discerning  eye, 
Margery.  But  such  is  his  eagerness  that  he  is  de- 
termined to  have  good  things,  even  though  he  doesn't 
know  them  when  he  sees  them.  He  would  like  to  be 
a  connoisseur  —  a  collector  of  world-wide  fame.  He 
would  like  to  fill  his  house  with  things  that  would  make 
people  open  their  eyes  and  whistle.  But  at  present 
he's  got  no  guide  but  price  and  his  own  pure  taste. 
Consequently  he  gets  hopelessly  let  in,  and  people 
whistle,  but  not  in  the  way  he  wants.  He's  quite  frank ; 
he  told  me  all  about  it.  What  he  wants  is  a  man  with 
a  good  eye,  to  do  his  shopping  for  him.  It  would  be 
an  ideal  berth  for  a  man  with  the  desire  but  not  the 
power  to  purchase;  a  unique  partnership  of  talent 
with  capital.  There  you  are.  You  supply  the  talent. 
He'd  take  you  on,  for  certain.  It  would  be  a  very  nice 
•little  job  for  you  to  begin  with.  By  the  time  you've 
decorated  his  town  house  and  his  country  seat  and  his 
shooting-box  and  all  his  other  residences,  you'll  be  fairly 


34  THE  LEE  SHORE 

started  in  your  profession.     I'll  write  to  him  about 

you." 

Peter  chuckled.  "  How  frightfully  funny,  though. 
I  wonder  why  anyone  should  want  to  have  things  unless 
they  like  to  have  them  for  themselves.  Just  as  if  I 
were  to  hire  Streater,  say,  to  buy  really  beautiful  photo- 
graphs of  actresses  for  me!  .  .  .  Well,  suppose  he 
didn't  like  the  things  I  bought  for  him  ?  Suppose  our 
tastes  didn't  agree  ?  Should  I  have  to  try  and  suit  his, 
or  would  he  have  to  put  up  with  mine  ?  " 

"  There's  only  one  taste  in  the  matter,"  Urquhart 
told  him.  "  He  hasn't  got  any.  You  could  buy  him. 
any  old  thing  and  tell  him  it  was  good  and  he'd  be- 
lieve you,  provided  it  cost  enough.  That's  why  he  has 
to  have  a  buyer  honest  though  poor  —  he  couldn't  check 
him  in  the  least.  I  shall  tell  him  that,  however  many 
the  things  you  might  lie  about,  you  are  a  George  Wash- 
ington where  your  precious  bric-a-brac  is  concerned,  be- 
cause it's  the  one  thing  you  care  about  too  much  to  take 
it  flippantly." 

Peter  chuckled  again.  Life,  having  for  a  little  while 
drifted  perilously  near  to  the  shores  of  dullness,  again 
bobbed  merrily  on  the  waters  of  farce.  What  a  lot  of 
funny  things  there  were,  all  waiting  to  be  done !  Tins 
that  Urquhart  suggested  should  certainly,  if  possible, 
be  one  of  them. 

A  week  later,  when  Mr.  Leslie  had  written  to  engage 
Peter's  services,  Urquhart's  second  cousin  Rodney 
came  into  Peter's  room  (a  thing  he  had  never  done  be- 
fore, because  he  did  not  know  Peter  much)  and  said, 
"  But  why  not  start  a  curiosity  shop  of  your  own  ? 
Or  be  a  travelling  pedlar  ?  It  would  be  so  much  more 
amusing." 

Peter  felt  a  little  flattered.  He  liked  Rodney,  who 
was  in  his  third  year  and  had  never  before  taken  any 


THE  CHOICE  OF  A  CAREER         35 

particular  notice  of  him.  Rodney  was  a  rather  brilliant 
science  man ;  he  was  also  an  apostle,  a  vegetarian,  a  fine 
football  player,  an  ex-Fabian,  and  a  few  other  things. 
He  was  a  large,  emaciated-looking  person,  with  extraor- 
dinarily bright  grey  eyes,  inspiring  a  lean,  pale,  dark- 
browed  face  —  the  face  of  an  ascetic,  lit  by  a  flame  of 
energising  life.  He  looked  as  if  he  would  spend  and 
be  spent  by  it  to  the  last  charred  fragment,  in  pursuit 
of  the  idea.  There  was  nothing  in  his  vivid  aspect 
of  Peter  Margerison's  gentle  philosophy  of  acquies- 
cence ;  he  looked  as  if  he  would  to  the  end  dictate  terms 
to  life  rather  than  accept  them  —  an  attitude  combined 
oddly  with  a  view  which  regarded  the  changes  and 
chances  of  circumstance  as  more  or  less  irrelevant  to 
life's  vital  essence. 

Peter  didn't  know  why  Rodney  wanted  him  to  be  a 
travelling  pedlar  —  except  that,  as  he  had  anyhow  once 
been  a  Socialist,  he  presumably  disliked  the  rich  (igno- 
rant or  otherwise)  and  included  Leslie  among  them. 
Peter  always  had  a  vague  feeling  that  Rodney  did  not 
wholly  appreciate  his  cousin  Urquhart,  for  this  same 
reason.  A  man  of  means,  Rodney  would  no  doubt  have 
held,  has  much  ado  to  save  his  soul  alive;  better,  if 
possible,  be  a  bricklayer  or  a  mendicant  friar. 

"  Some  day,"  said  Peter  politely,  "  I  may  have  to 
be  a  travelling  pedlar.  This  is  only  an  experiment,  to 
see  if  it  works." 

He  was  conscious  suddenly  of  two  opposing  prin- 
ciples that  crossed  swords  with  a  clash.  Rodney  and 
Urquhart  —  poverty  and  wealth  —  he  could  not  analyse 
further. 

But  Rodney  was  newly  friendly  to  him  for  the  rest 
of  that  term.  Urquhart  commented  on  it. 

"  Stephen  always  takes  notice  of  the  destitute.  The 
best  qualification  for  his  regard  is  to  commit  such  a 


36  THE  LEE  SHORE 

solecism  that  society  cuts  you,  or  such  a  crime  that  you 
get  a  month's  hard.  Short  of  that,  it  will  do  to  have 
a  hole  in  your  coat,  or  paint  a  bad  picture,  or  produce 
a  yesterday's  handkerchief.  He  probably  thinks  you're 
on  the  road  to  that.  When  you  get  there,  he'll  swear 
eternal  friendship.  He  can't  away  with  the  prosper- 
ous." 

"  What  a  mistake,"  Peter  said.     It  seemed  to  him  a 
singularly  perverse  point  of  view. 


CHAPTEK  III 

THE    HOPES 

IT  was  rather  fun  shopping  for  Leslie.  Leslie  was 
a  stout,  quiet,  ponderous  person  between  thirty  and 
forty,  and  he  really  did  not  bound  at  all;  Urquhart 
had  done  him  less  than  justice  in  his  description.  There 
was  about  him  the  pathos  of  the  very  rich.  He  was 
generous  in  the  extreme,  and  Peter's  job  proved  lucra- 
tive as  well  as  pleasant.  He  grew  curiously  fond  of 
Leslie;  his  attitude  towards  him  was  one  of  respect 
touched  with  protectiveness.  No  one  should  any  more 
"  do  "  Leslie,  if  he  could  help  it. 

"  He's  let  me,"  Peter  told  his  cousin  Lucy,  "  get 
rid  of  all  his  horrible  Lowestoft  forgeries ;  awful  things 
they  were,  with  the  blue  hardly  dry  on  them.  Fright- 
ful cheek,  selling  him  things  like  that ;  it's  so  insulting. 
Leslie's  awfully  sweet-tempered  about  being  gulled, 
though.  He's  very  kind  to  me ;  he  lets  me  buy  anything 
I  like  for  him.  And  he  recommends  me  to  his  friends, 
too.  It's  a  splendid  profession;  I'm  so  glad  I  thought 
of  it.  If  I  hadn't  I  should  have  had  to  go  into  a  dye 
shop,  or  be  a  weaver  or  something.  It  wouldn't  have 
been  good  form;  it  wouldn't  even  have  been  clean.  I 
should  have  had  a  day-before-yesterday's  handkerchief 
and  Rodney  would  have  liked  me  more,  but  Denis  would 
probably  have  cut  me.  As  it  is  I'm  quite  good  form 
and  quite  clean,  and  I  move  in  the  best  circles.  I  love 
the  Ignorant  Rich;  they're  so  amusing.  I  know  such 
a  nice  lady.  She  buys  potato  rings.  She  likes  them  to 
be  Dublin  hall-marked  and  clearly  dated  seventeen  him- 

37 


38  THE  LEE  SHORE 

dred  and  something  —  so,  naturally,  they  always  were 
till  I  began  to  buy  them  for  her.  I've  persuaded  her 
to  give  away  the  most  blatant  forgeries  to  her  god-child- 
ren at  their  baptisms.  Babies  like  them,  sham  or  genu- 
ine." 

Peter  was  having  tea  with  his  cousin  Lucy  and  Urqu- 
hart  in  the  White  City.  Peter  and  Lucy  were  very 
fond  of  the  White  City.  Peter's  cousin  Lucy  was  some- 
thing like  a  small,  gay  spring  flower,  with  wide,  solemn 
grey  eyes  that  brimmed  with  sudden  laughters,  and  a 
funny,  infectious  gurgle  of  a  laugh.  She  was  a  year 
younger  than  Peter,  and  they  had  all  their  lives  gone 
shares  in  their  possessions,  from  guinea-pigs  to  ideas. 
They  admired  the  same  china  and  the  same  people,  with 
unquestioning  unanimity.  Lucy  lived  in  Chelsea,  with 
an  elder  sister  and  a  father  who  ran  at  his  own  expense 
a  revolutionary  journal  that  didn't  pay,  because  those 
who  would  have  liked  to  buy  it  couldn't,  for  the  most 
part,  afford  to,  and  because  those  who  could  have  af- 
forded to  didn't  want  to,  and  because,  in  short,  journals 
run  by  nice  people  never  do  pay. 

Lucy  played  the  'cello,  the  instrument  usually 
selected  by  the  small  in  stature.  In  the  intervals  of 
this  pursuit,  she  went  about  the  world  open-eyed  to  all 
new-burnished  joys  that  came  within  her  vision,  and 
lived  by  admiration,  hope  and  love,  and  played  with 
Peter  at  any  game,  wise  or  foolish,  that  turned  up. 
Often  Urquhart  played  with  them,  and  they  were  a 
happy  party  of  three.  Peter  and  Lucy  shared,  among 
other  things,  an  admiration  of  Urquhart. 

Peter  was  finding  the  world  delightful  just  now. 
This  first  winter  in  London  was  probably  the  happiest 
time  he  ever  had.  He  hardly  missed  Cambridge;  he 
certainly  didn't  miss  the  money  that  the  Robinsons  had. 
His  profession  was  to  touch  and  handle  the  things  he 


THE  HOPES  39 

loved;  the  Ignorant  Rich  were  delightful;  the  things 
he  bought  for  them  were  beyond  all  words;  the  sales 
he  attended  were  revels  of  joy ;  it  was  all  extremely  en- 
tertaining, and  Leslie  a  dear,  and  everyone  very  kind. 
The  affection  that  always  found  its  way  to  Peter 
through  his  disabilities  spoke  for  something  in  him  that 
must,  it  would  seem,  be  there;  possibly  it  was  merely 
his  friendly  smile.  He  was  anyhow  of  the  genus 
comedian,  that  readily  endears  itself. 

He  and  Urquhart  and  Lucy  all  knew  how  tc  live. 
They  made  good  use  of  most  of  the  happy  resources 
that  London  offers  to  its  inhabitants.  They  went  in 
steamers  to  and  fro  between  Putney  and  Greenwich, 
listening  to  concertinas  and  other  instruments  of  music. 
They  looked  at  many  sorts  of  pictures,  talked  to  many 
sorts  of  people,  and  attended  many  sorts  of  plays. 
Urquhart  and  Peter  had  even  become  associates  of 
the  Y.M.C.A.  (representing  themselves  as  agnostics 
seeking  for  light)  on  account  of  the  swimming-baths. 
As  Peter  remarked,  "  Christian  Young  Men  do  not 
bathe  very  much,  and  it  seems  a  pity  no  one  should." 
On  the  day  when  they  had  tea  at  the  White  City,  they 
had  all  had  lunch  at  a  very  recherche  cafe  in  Soho, 
where  the  Smart  Set  like  to  meet  Bohemians,  and  you 
can  only  get  in  by  being  one  or  the  other,  so  Peter 
and  Lucy  went  as  the  Smart  Set,  and  Urquhart  as  a 
Bohemian,  and  they  liked  to  meet  each  other  very 
much. 

The  only  drawback  to  Peter's  life  was  the  bronchitis 
that  sprang  at  him  out  of  the  fogs  and  temporarily 
stopped  work.  He  had  just  recovered  from  an  attack 
of  it  on  the  day  when  he  was  having  tea  at  the  White 
City,  and  he  looked  a  weak  and  washed-out  rag,  with 
sunken  blue  eyes  smiling  out  of  a  very  white  face. 

"  You  would  think,  to  look  at  him,"  Urquhart  said 


40  THE  LEE  SHORE 

to  Lucy,  "  that  lie  had  been  going  in  extensively  for 
the  flip-flap  this  afternoon.  It's  a  pity  Stephen  can't 
see  you,  Margery;  you  look  starved  enough  to  sat- 
isfy even  him.  You  never  come  across  Stephen  now, 
I  suppose?  You  wouldn't,  of  course.  He  has  no 
opinion  of  the  Ignorant  Rich.  Nor  even  of  the  well- 
informed  rich,  like  me.  He's  blindly  prejudiced  in 
favour  of  the  Ignorant  Poor." 

Lucy  nodded.  "  I  know.  He's  nice  to  me  always. 
I  go  and  play  my  'cello  to  his  friends." 

"  I  always  keep  him  in  mind,"  said  Peter,  "  for  the 
day  when  my  patrons  get  tired  of  me.  I  know  Rodney 
will  be  kind  to  me  directly  I  take  to  street  peddling  or 
any  other  thoroughly  ill-bred  profession.  The  kind  he 
despises  most,  I  suppose,  are  my  dear  Ignorant  Rich 
—  the  ill-bred  but  by  no  means  breadless.  (That's  my 
own  and  not  very  funny,  by  the  way.)  Did  I  tell 
you,  Denis,  that  Leslie  is  going  to  begin  educating  the 
People  in  Appreciation  of  Objects  of  Art?  Isn't  it  a 
nice  idea  ?  I'm  to  help.  Leslie's  a  visionary,  you 
know.  I  believe  plutocrats  often  are.  They've  so 
much  money  and  are  so  comfortable  that  they  stop 
wanting  material  things  and  begin  dreaming  dreams. 
I  should  dream  dreams  if  I  was  a  plutocrat.  As  it  is 
my  mind  is  earthly.  I  don't  want  to  educate  anyone. 
Well,  anyhow  we're  going  to  Italy  in  the  spring,  to 
pick  things  up,  as  Leslie  puts  it.  That  always  sounds 
so  much  as  if  we  didn't  pay  for  them.  Then  we  shall 
bring  them  home  and  have  free  exhibits  for  the  Igno- 
rant Poor,  and  I  shall  give  free  and  instructive  lectures. 
Isn't  it  a  pleasant  plan?  We're  going  to  Venice. 
There's  a  Berovieri  goblet  that  some  Venetian  count 
has,  that  Leslie's  set  his  heart  on.  We  are  to  acquire 
it,  regardless  of  expense,  if  it  turns  out  to  be  all  that 
is  rumoured." 


THE  HOPES  41 

Urquhart  scoffed  here. 

"  Nice  to  be  infallible,  isn't  it.  You  and  your 
goblets  and  your  Ignorant  Rich.  And  your  brother 
Hilary  and  my  uncle  Evelyn.  Your  great  gifts  seem 
to  run  in  the  family.  My  uncle,  I  hear,  is  ruining 
himself  with  buying  the  things  your  brother  admires. 
My  poor  uncle,  Miss  Hope,  is  getting  so  weak-sighted 
that  he  can't  judge  for  himself  as  he  used,  so  he  fol- 
lows the  advice  of  Margery's  brother.  It  keeps  him 
very  happy  and  amused,  though  he'll  soon  be  bank- 
rupt, no  doubt." 

Lucy,  as  usual,  laughed  at  the  Urquhart  family 
and  the  Margerison  family  and  the  world  at  large. 
When  she  laughed,  she  opened  her  grey  eyes  wide, 
while  they  twinkled  with  dancing  light. 

Then  she  said,  "  Oh,  I  want  to  go  on  the  flip-flap. 
Peter  mustn't  come,  because  it  always  makes  him  sick; 
so  will  you  ?  " 

Urquhart  said  he  would,  so  they  did,  and  Peter 
watched  them,  hoping  Urquhart  didn't  mind  much. 
Urquhart  never  seemed  to  mind  being  ordered  about 
by  Lucy.  And  Lucy,  of  course,  had  accepted  him  as 
an  intimate  friend  from  the  first,  because  Peter  had 
said  she  was  to,  and  because,  as  she  remarked,  he  was 
so  astonishingly  nice  to  look  at  and  to  listen  to. 

Among  the  visitors  who  frequented  Lucy's  home, 
people  whom  she  considered  astonishingly  pleasant  to 
look  at  and  to  listen  to  did  not  abound;  so  Lucy  en- 
joyed the  change  all  the  more. 

The  first  time  Peter  took  Urquhart  down  to  Chelsea 
to  call  on  his  Hope  uncle  and  cousins,  one  Sunday  af- 
ternoon, he  gave  him  a  succinct  account  of  the  sort  of 
people  they  would  probably  meet  there. 

"  They  have  oddities  in,  you  know  —  and  particu- 
larly on  Sunday  afternoons.  They  usually  have  one 


42  THE  LEE  SHORE 

or  two  staying  in  the  house,  too.  They  keep  open  house 
for  wastrels.  A  lot  of  them  are  aliens  —  Polish  refu- 
gees, Russian  anarchists,  oppressed  Finns,  massacred 
Armenians  who  do  embroidery;  violinists  who  can't 
earn  a  living,  decayed  chimney-sweeps  and  so  forth. 
'  Disillusioned  (or  still  illusioned)  geniuses,  would-bes, 
theorists,  artistic  natures,  failed  reformers,  knaves 
and  fools  incompetent  or  over-old,  broken  evangelists 
and  debauchees,  inebriates,  criminals,  cowards,  virtual 
slaves '  .  .  .  Anyhow  it's  a  home  for  Lost  Hopes. 
(Do  you  see  that  ?)  My  uncle  is  keen  on  anyone  who 
tries  to  revolt  against  anything  —  governments,  Rus- 
sians, proprieties,  or  anything  else  —  and  Felicity  is 
keen  on  anyone  who  fails." 

"  And  your  other  cousin  —  what  is  she  keen  on  ?  " 
"  Oh,  Lucy's  too  young  for  the  Oddities,  like  me. 
She  and  I  sit  in  a  corner  and  look  on.  It's  my  uncle 
and  Felicity  they  like  to  talk  to.  They  talk  about 
Liberty  to  them,  you  know.  My  uncle  is  great  on 
Liberty.  And  they  give  them  lemon  in  their  tea,  and 
say  how  wicked  Russians  are,  and  how  stupid  Royal 
Academicians  are,  and  buy  the  Armenians'  embroidery, 
and  so  forth.  Lucy  and  I  don't  do  that  well.  I  dis- 
approve of  liberty  for  most  people,  I  think,  and  cer- 
tainly for  them ;  and  I  don't  like  lemon  in  my  tea,  and 
though  I'm  sure  Russians  are  wicked,  I  believe  op- 
pressed Poles  are  as  bad  —  at  least  their  hair  is  as 
bushy  and  their  nails  as  long  —  and  I  prefer  the  em- 
broidery I  do  myself;  I  do  it  quite  nicely,  I  think. 
And  I  don't  consider  that  Celtic  poets  or  Armenian 
Christians  wash  their  hands  often  enough.  .  .  .  They 
nearly  all  asked  me  the  time  last  Sunday.  I  was  sorry 
about  it." 

"  You  feared  they  were  finding  their  afternoon  tedi- 
ous ? " 


THE  HOPES  43 

"  No ;  but  I  think  their  watches  were  up  the  spout, 
you  see.  So  I  was  sorry.  I  never  feel  so  sorry  for 
myself  as  when  mine  is.  I'm  really  awfully  grateful 
to  Leslie;  if  it  wasn't  for  him  I  should  never  be  able 
to  tell  anyone  the  time.  By  the  way,  Leslie's  awfully 
fond  of  Felicity.  He  writes  her  enormous  cheques 
for  her  clubs  and  vagabonds  and  so  on.  But  of  course 
she'll  never  look  at  him;  he's  much  too  well-off.  It's 
not  low  to  tell  you  that,  because  he  makes  it  so  awfully 
obvious.  He'll  probably  be  there  this  afternoon.  Oh, 
here  we  are." 

They  found  the  Hopes'  small  drawing-room  filled 
much  as  Peter  had  predicted.  Dermot  Hope  was  a 
tall,  wasted-looking  man  of  fifty-five,  with  brilliant 
eyes  giving  significance  to  a  vague  face.  He  had  very 
little  money,  and  spent  that  little  on  "  Progress," 
whose  readers  were  few  and  ardent,  and  whose  contribu- 
tors were  very  cosmopolitan,  and  full  of  zeal  and  fire; 
several  of  them  were  here  this  afternoon.  Dermot 
Hope  himself  was  most  unconquerably  full  of  fire.  He 
could  be  delightful,  and  exceedingly  disagreeable,  full 
of  genial  sympathy  and  appreciation,  and  of  a  biting 
irony.  He  looked  at  Urquhart,  whom  he  met  for 
the  first  time,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  smile. 
He  said,  "  You're  exactly  like  your  father.  How  do 
you  do,"  and  seemed  to  take  no  further  interest  in  him. 
He  had  certainly  never  taken  much  in  Lord  Hugh,  dur- 
ing the  brief  year  of  their  brotherhood. 

For  Peter  his  glance  was  indulgent.  Peter,  not  be- 
ing himself  a  reformer,  or  an  idealist,  or  a  lover  of 
progress,  or  even,  according  to  himself,  of  liberty,  but 
an  acceptor  of  things  as  they  are  and  a  lover  of  the 
good  things  of  this  world,  was  not  particularly  inter- 
esting to  his  uncle,  of  course;  but,  being  rather  an 
endearing  boy,  and  the  son  of  a  beloved  sister,  he 


44  THE  LEE  SHORE 

• 

was  loved;  and,  even  had  he  been  a  stranger,  his  posi- 
tion would  have  been  regarded  as  more  respectable  than 
Urquhart's,  since  he  had  so  far  failed  to  secure  many 
good  things. 

Felicity,  a  gracious  and  lovely  person  of  twenty- 
nine,  gave  Peter  and  Urquhart  a  smile  out  of  her 
violet  eyes  and  murmured  "  Lucy's  in  the  corner  over 
there,"  and  resumed  the  conversation  she  was  trying 
to  divide  between  Joseph  Leslie  and  a  young  English 
professor  who  was  having  a  holiday  from  stirring  up 
revolutions  at  a  Polish  university.  The  division  was 
not  altogether  easy,  even  to  a  person  of  Felicity's  ex- 
traordinary tact,  particularly  as  they  both  happened  to 
be  in  love  with  her.  Felicity  had  a  great  deal  of  listen- 
ing to  do  always,  because  everyone  told  her  about  them- 
selves, and  she  always  heard  them  gladly;  if  she 
hastened  the  end  a  little  sometimes,  gently,  they  never 
knew  it.  She,  in  fact,  wanted  to  hear  about  them  as 
much  —  really  as  much,  though  the  desire  in  these 
proportions  is  so  rare  as  to  seem  incredible  —  as  they 
wanted  to  let  her  hear.  Her  wish  to  hear  was  a  temp- 
tation to  egotism;  those  who  disliked  egotism  in  them- 
selves had  to  fight  the  temptation,  and  seldom  won. 
She  did  not  believe  —  no  one  but  a  fool  (and  she  was 
not  that)  could  have  believed  —  all  the  many  things 
that  were  told  her;  the  many  things  that  must  always, 
while  pity  and  the  need  to  be  pitied  endure,  be  told 
to  the  pitiful;  but  she  seldom  said  so.  She  merely 
looked  at  the  teller  with  her  long  and  lovely  violet  eyes, 
that  took  in  so  much  and  gave  out  such  continual  friend- 
ship, and  saw  how,  behind  the  lies,  the  need  dwelt 
pleading.  Then  she  gave,  not  necessarily  what  the  lies 
asked  for,  but  what,  in  her  opinion,  pity  owed  to  that 
which  pleaded.  She  certainly  gave,  as  a  rule,  quite  too 
much,  in  whatever  coin  she  paid.  That  was  inevitable. 


THE  HOPES  45 

"  You  give  from  the  emotions,"  Joseph  Leslie  told 
her,  "  instead  of  from  reason.  How  bad  for  you :  how 
bad  for  them.  And  worse  when  it  is  friendship  than 
when  it  is  coin  that  you  can  count  and  set  a  limit  to. 
Yes.  Abominably  bad  for  everyone  concerned." 

"  Should  one,"  wondered  Felicity,  "  give  friendship, 
as  one  is  supposed  to  give  money,  on  C.O.S.  principles  2 
Perhaps  so;  I  must  think  about  it" 

But  her  thinking  always  brought  her  back  to  the 
same  conclusion  as  before.  Consequently  her  circle 
of  friends  grew  and  grew.  She  even  included  in  it  a 
few  of  the  rich  and  prosperous,  not  wishing  her  chain 
of  fellowship,  whose  links  she  kept  in  careful  repair, 
to  fail  anywhere.  But  it  showed  strain  there.  It  was 
forged  and  flung  by  the  rich  and  prosperous,  and  merely 
accepted  by  Felicity. 

Leslie,  though  rich  and  prosperous,  stepped  into  the 
linked  circle  led  by  Peter,  who  was  neither.  Having 
money,  and  a  desire  to  make  himself  conscious  of  the 
fact  by  using  it,  he  consulted  Miss  Hope  as  to  how 
best  to  be  philanthropic.  He  wanted,  it  seemed,  to  be 
a  philanthropist  as  well  as  a  collector,  and  felt  in- 
capable of  being  either  otherwise  than  through  agents. 
His  personal  share  in  both  enterprises  had  to  be  limited 
to  the  backing  capital. 

Miss  Hope  said,  "  Start  a  settlement,"  and  he  had 
said,  "  I  can't  unless  you'll  work  it  for  me.  Will 
you  ? "  So  he  started  a  settlement,  and  she  worked 
it  for  him,  and  he  came  about  the  place  and  got  in  the 
way  and  wrote  heavy  cheques  and  adored  Felicity  and 
suggested  at  suitable  intervals  that  she  should  marry 
him. 

Felicity  had  no  intention  of  marrying  him.  She 
called  him  a  rest.  ~No  one  likes  being  called  a  rest  when 
they  desire  to  be  a  stimulant,  or  even  a  gentle  excite- 


46  THE  LEE  SHORE 

ment.  Felicity  was  an  immense  excitement  to  Mr. 
Leslie  (though  he  concealed  it  laboriously  under  a 
heavy  and  matter-of-fact  exterior)  and  it  is  of  course 
pleasanter  when  these  things  are  reciprocal.  But  Mr. 
Leslie  perceived  that  she  took  much  more  interest  even 
in  her  young  cousin  Peter  than  in  him.  "  Do  you 
find  him  a  useful  little  boy  ? "  she  asked  him  this  af- 
ternoon, before  Peter  and  Urquhart  arrived. 

Leslie  nodded.  "  Useful  boy  —  very.  And  pleas- 
ant company,  you  know.  I  don't  know  much  about 
these  things,  but  he  seems  to  have  a  splendid  eye  for 
a  good  thing.  Funny  thing  is,  it  works  all  round  —  in 
all  departments.  Native  genius,  not  training.  He 
sees  a  horse  between  a  pair  of  shafts  in  a  country  lane ; 
looks  at  it ;  says  '  That's  good.  That  would  have  a  fair 
chance  for  the  Grand  National ' —  Urquhart  buys  it 
for  fifty  pounds  straight  away  —  and  it  does  win  the 
Grand  National.  And  he  knows  nothing  special  about 
horses,  either.  That's  what  I  call  genius.  It's  the 
same  eye  that  makes  him  spot  a  dusty  old  bit  of  good 
china  on  a  back  shelf  of  a  shop  among  a  crowd  of 
forged  rubbish.  I've  none  of  that  sort  of  sense;  I'm 
hopeless.  But  I  like  good  things,  and  I  can  pay  for 
them,  and  I  give  that  boy  a  free  rein.  He's  furnishing 
my  house  well  for  me.  It  seems  to  amuse  him  rather." 

"  He  loves  it,"  said  Felicity.  "  His  love  of  pleas- 
ant things  is  what  he  lives  by.  Including  among  them 
Denis  Urquhart,  of  course." 

"  Yes."  Leslie  pursed  thoughtful  lips  over  Denis 
Urquhart.  He  was  perhaps  slightly  touched  with  jeal- 
ousy there.  He  was  himself  rather  drawn  towards  that 
tranquil  young  man,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  the 
drawing  was  one-sided;  Urquhart  was  patently  un- 
drawn. 

"  Eather  a  flash  lot,  the  Urquharts,  aren't  they  ?  "  he 


THE  HOPES  47 

said;  and  Peter,  who  liked  him,  would  have  had  to 
admit  that  the  remark  was  perilously  near  to  a  bound. 
"  Seem  to  have  a  sort  of  knack  of  dazzling  people." 

"  He's  an  attractive  person,  of  course,"  Miss  Hope 
replied;  and  she  didn't  say  it  distantly;  she  was  so 
sorry  for  people  who  bounded,  and  so  many  of  her 
friends  did.  "  It's  pleasing  to  see,  isn't  it  —  such 
whole-souled  devotion  ?  " 

Mr.  Leslie  grunted.  "  I  won't  say  pearls  before 
swine  —  because  Urquhart  isn't  a  swine,  but  a  very 
pleasant,  ordinary  young  fellow.  But  worship  like  that 
can't  be  deserved,  you  know;  not  by  anyone,  however 
beautifully  he  motors  through  life.  Margerison's 
too  —  well,  too  nice,  to  put  it  simply  —  to  give  himself 
to  another  person,  body  and  soul,  like  that.  It's 
squandering." 

"  And  irritates  you,"  she  reflected,  but  merely  said, 
"  Is  squandering  always  a  bad  thing,  I  wonder  ?  " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Peter  and  Urquhart  came 
in.  Directed  by  Felicity  to  Lucy  in  an  obscure  corner, 
they  found  her  being  talked  to  by  one  of  the  Odd- 
ities ;  he  looked  rather  like  an  oppressed  Finn.  He  was 
talking  and  she  was  listening,  wide-eyed  and  ingenuous, 
her  small  hands  clasped  on  her  lap.  Peter  and  Urqu- 
hart sat  down  by  her,  and  the  oppressed  Finn  presently 
wandered  away  to  talk  to  Lucy's  father. 

Lucy  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Wish  they  wouldn't  come  and  talk  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  no  good  to  them ;  I  don't  understand ;  and  I 
hate  people  to  be  unhappy.  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  they 
are.  I  don't  want  to  have  to  think  about  them.  Why 
can't  they  be  happy?  There  are  so  many  nice  things 
all  about.  'Tis  such  waste."  She  looked  up  at  Urqu- 
hart, and  her  eyes  laughed  because  he  was  happy  and 
clean,  and  shone  like  a  new  pin. 


48  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  It's  nicest,"  she  said,  "  to  be  happy  and  clean. 
And  it's  not  bad  to  be  happy  and  dirty;  or  very  bad 
to  be  unhappy  and  clean ;  but  .  .  ."  She  shut  her  lips 
with  a  funny  distaste  on  the  remaining  alternative. 
%"  And  I'm  horribly  afraid  Felicity's  going  to  get  en- 
gaged to  Mr.  Malyon,  that  young  one  talking  to  her, 
do  you  see  ?  He  helps  with  conspiracies  in  Poland." 

"  But  he's  quite  clean,"  said  Urquhart,  looking  at 
him. 

Lucy  admitted  that.  "  But  he'll  get  sent  to  Siberia 
soon,  don't  you  see,  and  Felicity  will  go  too,  I  know." 

Peter  said,  "  If  I  was  Felicity  I'd  marry  Leslie ; 
I  wouldn't  hesitate  for  a  moment.  I  wish  it  was  me 
he  loved  so.  Fancy  marrying  into  all  those  lovely 
things  I'm  getting  for  him.  Only  I  hope  she  won't,  be- 
cause then  she'd  take  over  the  shopping  department,  and 
I  should  be  left  unemployed.  Oh,  Lucy,  he's  let  me 
buy  him  the  heavenliest  pair  of  Chelsea  jardinieres, 
shaped  like  orange-tubs,  with  Cupids  painted  on  blue 
panels.  You  must  come  and  see  them  soon." 

Lucy's  eyes,  seeing  the  delightful  things,  widened 
and  danced.  She  loved  the  things  Peter  bought. 

Suddenly  Peter,  who  had  a  conscience  somewhere, 
felt  a  pang  in  it,  and,  to  ease  it,  regretfully  left  the 
corner  and  wandered  about  among  his  uncle's  friends, 
being  pleasant  and  telling  them  the  time.  He  did  that 
till  the  last  of  them  had  departed.  Urquhart  then  had 
to  depart  also,  and  Peter  was  alone  with  his  relatives. 
It  was  only  after  Urquhart  had  gone  that  Peter  realised 
fully  what  a  very  curious  and  incongruous  element  he 
had  been  in  the  room.  Realising  it  suddenly,  he 
laughed,  and  Lucy  laughed  too.  Felicity  looked  at 
them  indulgently. 

"  Babies.     What's  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"  Only  Denis,"  explained  Peter. 


THE  HOPES  49 

"  That  young  man,"  commented  Dermot  Hope,  with- 
out approbation,  "  is  remarkably  well-fed,  well-bred,  and 
well-dressed.  Why  do  you  take  him  about  with  you  ?  " 

"  That's  just  why,  isn't  it,  Peter,"  put  in  Lucy. 
"  Peter  and  I  like  people  to  be  well-fed  and  well- 
bred  and  well-dressed." 

Felicity  touched  her  chin,  with  her  indulgent  smile. 

"  Baby  again.  You  like  no  such  thing.  You'd  get 
tired  of  it  in  a  week." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lucy,  "  a  week's  a  long  time." 

"  He's  got  no  fire  in  all  his  soul  and  body,"  com- 
plained Dermot  Hope.  "  He's  a  symbol  of  prosperous 
content  —  of  all  we're  fighting.  It's  people  like  him 
who  are  the  real  obstructionists;  the  people  who  don't 
see,  not  because  they're  blind,  but  because  they're  too 
pleased  with  their  own  conditions  to  look  beyond  them. 
It's  people  like  him,  who  are  pouring  water  on  the 
fires  as  they  are  lit,  because  fires  are  such  bad  form, 
and  might  burn  up  their  precious  chattels  if  allowed  to 
get  out  of  hand.  Take  life  placidly ;  don't  get  excited, 
it's  so  vulgar;  that's  their  religion.  They've  neither 
enthusiasm  nor  imagination  in  them.  And  so  .  .  ." 

And  so  forth,  just  as  it  came  out  in  "  Progress  " 
once  a  month.  Peter  didn't  read  "  Progress,"  because 
he  wasn't  interested  in  the  future,  being  essentially  a 
child  of  to-day.  Besides,  he  too  hated  conflagrations, 
thinking  the  precious  chattels  they  would  burn  up 
much  too  precious  for  that.  Peter  was  no  lover  either 
of  destruction  or  construction;  perhaps  he  too  was  an 
obstructionist,  though  not  without  imagination.  His 
uncle  knew  he  had  a  regrettable  tendency  to  put  things 
in  the  foreground  and  keep  ideas  very  much  in  the 
background,  and  called  him  therefore  a  phenomenalist. 
Lucy  shared  this  tendency,  being  a  good  deal  of  an 
artist  and  nothing  at  all  of  a  philosopher. 


CHAPTER  IV 

4 

THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER 

Six  months  later  Peter  called  at  the  Hopes'  to  say 
good-bye  before  he  went  to  Italy.  He  found  Lucy  in, 
and  Urquhart  was  there  too,  talking  to  her  in  a  room 
full  of  leaping  fire-shadows.  Peter  sat  down  on  the 
coal-scuttle  (it  was  one  of  those  coal-scuttles  you  can 
sit  on  comfortably)  and  said,  "  Leslie's  taking  me  to 
Italy  on  Sunday.  Isn't  it  nice  for  me.  I  wish  he  was 
taking  you  too." 

Lucy,  clasping  small  hands,  said,  "  Oh,  Peter,  I  wish 
he  was ! " 

Urquhart,  looking  at  her  said,  "  Do  you  want  to 
go  ? "  and  she  nodded,  with  her  mouth  tight  shut  as  if 
to  keep  back  floods  of  eloquence  on  that  subject.  "  So 
do  I,"  said  Urquhart,  and  added,  in  his  casual  way, 
"  Will  you  and  your  father  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  You  paying  ?  "  said  Lucy,  in  her  frank,  unabashed 
way  like  a  child's ;  and  he  smiled  down  at  her. 

"  Yes.     Me  paying." 

"  'Twould  be  nice,"  she  breathed,  her  grey  eyes  wide 
with  wistful  pleasure.  "  I  would  love  it.  But  — • 
but  father  wouldn't,  you  know.  He  wouldn't  want  to 
go,  and  if  he  did  he'd  want  to  pay  for  it  himself,  and 
do  it  his  own  way,  and  travel  third-class  and  be  dread- 
fully uncomfortable.  Wouldn't  he,  Peter  ?  " 

Peter  feared  that  he  would. 

"  Thank  you  tremendously,  all  the  same,"  said  Lucy, 
prettily  polite. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  by  myself,  then,"  said  Urqu- 
50 


THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER          51 

hart.  "  What  a  bore.  I  really  am  going,  you  know, 
sometime  this  spring,  to  stay  with  my  uncle  in  Venice. 
I  expect  I  shall  come  across  you,  Margery,  with  any 
luck.  I  shan't  start  yet,  though;  I  shall  wait  for  bet- 
ter motoring  weather.  No,  I  can't  stop  for  tea,  thanks ; 
I'm  going  off  for  the  week-end.  Good-bye.  Good- 
bye, Margery.  See  you  next  in  Venice,  probably." 

He  was  gone.  Lucy  sat  still  in  her  characteristic  at- 
titude, hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  solemn  grey  eyes  on 
the  fire. 

"  He's  going  away  for  the  week-end,"  she  said,  real- 
ising it  for  herself  and  Peter.  "  But  it's  more  amusing 
when  he's  here.  When  he's  in  town,  I  mean,  and 
comes  in.  That's  nice  and  funny,  isn't  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter. 

"  But  one  can  go  out  into  the  streets  and  see  the 
people  go  by  —  and  that's  nice  and  funny  too.  And 
there  are  the  Chinese  paintings  in  the  British  Museum 
.  .  .  and  concerts  .  .  .  and  the  Zoo  .  .  .  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  a  theatre  to-night.  It's  all  nice  and  funny, 
isn't  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter  again.     He  thought  so  too. 

"  Even  when  you  and  he  are  both  gone  to  Italy," 
said  Lucy,  reassuring  herself,  faintly  interrogative. 
"  Even  then  ...  it  can't  be  dull.  It  can't  be  dull 
ever." 

"  It  hasn't  been  yet,"  Peter  agreed.  "  But  I  wish 
you  were  coming  too  to  Italy.  You  must  before  long. 
As  soon  as  .  .  .  '  He  left  that  unfinished,  because  it 
was  all  so  vague  at  present,  and  he  and  Lucy  always 
lived  in  the  moment. 

"  Well,"  said  Lucy,  "  let's  have  tea."  They  had  it, 
out  of  little  Wedgwood  gups,  and  Lucy's  mood  of  faint 
wistfulness  passed  over  and  left  them  chuckling. 

Lucy  was  a  little  sad  about  Felicity,  who  was  now 


52  THE  LEE  SHORE 

engaged  to  the  young  professor  who  was  conspiring  in 
Poland. 

"  I  knew  she  would,  of  course.  I  told  you  so  long 
ago.  He's  quite  sure  to  get  arrested  before  long,  so 
that  settled  it.  And  they're  going  to  be  married  di- 
rectly and  go  straight  out  there  and  plot.  He  excites 
the  students,  you  know;  as  if  students  needed  exciting 
by  their  professors.  ...  I  shall  miss  Felicity  horri- 
bly. 'Tis  too  bad."  i 

Peter,  to  cheer  her  up,  told  her  what  he  and  Leslie 
were  going  to  do  in  Italy. 

"  Pll  write,  of  course.  Picture  post  cards,  you  know. 
And  if  ever  I've  twopence  halfpenny  to  spare  I'll  write 
a  real  letter;  there'll  be  a  lot  to  tell  you."  Peter  ex- 
pected Leslie  to  be  rather  funny  in  Italy,  picking 
things  up. 

"  A  great  country,  I  believe,  for  picking  things  up," 
he  had  said.  "  Particularly  for  the  garden."  He  had 
been  referring  to  his  country  seat. 

"  I  see,"  said  Peter.  "  You  want  to  Italianise  the 
garden.  I'm  not  quite  sure.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  might,  of 
course.  Iron-work  gates,  then;  and  carved  Renais- 
sance oil-tanks,  and  Venetian  well-heads,  and  such-like. 
All  right ;  we'll  see  what  we  can  steal.  But  it's  rather 
easy  to  let  an  Italianised  garden  become  florid;  you 
have  to  be  extremely  careful  with  it." 

"  That's  up  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Leslie  tranquilly. 

So  they  went  to  Italy,  and  Peter  picked  things  up 
with  judgment,  and  Leslie  paid  for  them  with  phlegm. 
They  picked  up  not  only  carved  olive-oil  tanks  and 
well-heads  and  fifteenth-century  iron-work  gates  from 
ancient  and  impoverished  gardens,  but  a  contemporarily 
copied  Delia  Robbia  fireplace,  and  designs  for  Renais- 
sance ceilings,  and  a  rococo  carved  and  painted  altar- 
piece  from  a  mountain  church  whose  parroco  was  hard- 


THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER  53 

up,  and  a  piece  of  1480  tapestry  that  Peter  loved  very 
much,  whereon  St.  Anne  and  other  saints  played 
among  roses  and  raspberries,  beautiful  to  behold. 
These  things  made  both  the  picker-up  and  the  payer 
exceedingly  contented.  Meanwhile  Peter  with  diffi- 
culty restrained  Leslie  from  "  picking  up  "  stray  pieces 
of  mosaic  from  tessellated  pavements,  and  other  curios. 
Oddly  together  with  Leslie's  feeling  for  the  costly  went 
the  insane  and  indiscriminate  avidity  of  the  collecting 
tourist. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  Peter  would  shrilly  and  em- 
phatically explain.  "  It's  like  a  German  tripper  col- 
lecting souvenirs.  Things  aren't  interesting  merely 
because  you  happen  to  have  been  to  the  places  they 
belong  to.  What  do  you  want  with  that  bit  of  glass? 
It  isn't  beautiful;  when  it's  taken  out  of  the  rest  of 
its  pattern  like  that  it's  merely  ridiculous.  I  thought 
you  wanted  beautiful  things." 

Leslie  would  meekly  give  in.  His  leaning  on  Peter 
in  this  matter  of  what  he  wanted  was  touching.  In 
the  matter  of  what  he  admired,  where  no  questions  of 
acquisition  came  in,  he  and  his  shopping-man  agreed 
less.  Leslie  here  showed  flashes  of  proper  spirit.  He 
also  read  Euskin  in  the  train.  Peter  had  small  al- 
legiance there ;  he  even,  when  irritated,  called  Euskin  a 
muddle-head. 

"  He's  a  good  man,  isn't  he  ? "  Leslie  queried, 
puzzled.  "  Surely  he  knows  what  he's  talking  about  ?  " 
and  Peter  had  to  admit  that  that  was  so. 

"  He  tells  me  what  to  like,"  the  self-educator  said 
simply.  "  And  I  try  to  like  it.  I  don't  always  suc- 
ceed, but  I  try.  That's  right,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  Peter  was  puzzled.  "  It  seems 
to  me  rather  a  funny  way  of  going  about  it.  When 
you've  succeeded,  are  you  much  happier?  I  mean, 


54  THE  LEE  SHORE 

what  sort  of  a  liking  is  it?  Oh,  but  I  don't  under- 
stand —  there  aren't  two  sorts  really.  You  either  like 
a  thing,  or  ...  well." 

At  times  one  needed  a  rest  from  Leslie.  But  out- 
side the  province  of  art  and  the  pleasures  of  the  eye 
he  was  lovable,  even  likeable,  having  here  a  self-de- 
pendence and  a  personality  that  put  pathos  far  off,  and 
made  him  himself  a  rest.  And  his  generosity  was  limit- 
less. It  was  almost  an  oppression;  only  Peter,  being 
neither  proud  nor  self-conscious,  was  not  easily  op- 
pressed. He  took  what  was  lavished  on  him  and  did 
his  best  to  deserve  it.  But  it  was  perhaps  a  little  tiring. 
Leslie  was  a  thoroughly  good  sort  —  a  much  better  sort 
than  most  people  knew  —  but  Italy  was  somehow  not 
the  fit  setting  for  him.  Nothing  could  have  made  Peter 
dislike  things  pleasant  to  look  at;  but  Leslie's  perse- 
vering, uncomprehending  groping  after  their  pleasant- 
ness made  one  feel  desirous  to  dig  a  gulf  between  them 
and  him.  It  was  rather  ageing.  Peter  missed  Urqu- 
hart  and  Lucy;  one  felt  much  younger  with  them. 
The  thought  of  their  clean,  light,  direct  touch  on  life, 
that  handled  its  goods  without  fumbling,  and  without 
the  need  of  any  intervening  medium,  was  as  refreshing 
as  a  breath  of  fresh  air  in  a  close  room. 

Rodney  too  was  refreshing.  They  came  across  him 
at  Pietrasanta ;  he  was  walking  across  Tuscany  by  him  - 
self,  and  came  to  the  station,  looking  very  dusty  and 
disreputable,  to  put  the  book  he  had  finished  into  his 
bag  that  travelled  by  train  and  get  out  another. 

"  Come  out  of  that,"  he  said  to  Peter,  "  and  walk 
with  me  to  Florence.  Trains  for  bags ;  roads  for  men. 
You  can  meet  your  patron  in  Florence.  Come  along." 

And  Peter,  after  a  brief  consultation  with  the  ac- 
commodating Leslie,  did  come  along.  It  was  certainly 
more  than  amusing.  The  road  in  Tuscany  is  much 


THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER  55 

better  than  the  railway.  And  Rodney  was  an  inter- 
esting and  rather  attractive  person.  Since  he  left  Cam- 
bridge he  had  been  pursuing  abstruse  chemical  re- 
search in  a  laboratory  he  had  in  a  Westminster  slum. 
Peter  never  saw  him  in  London,  because  the  Ignorant 
Rich  do  not  live  in  slums,  and  because  Rodney  was  not 
fond  of  the  more  respectable  quarters  of  the  city. 

Peter  was  set  speculating  vaguely  on  Rodney's  vivid 
idealism.  To  Peter,  ideas,  the  unseen  spirits  of  life, 
were  remote,  neither  questioned  nor  accepted,  but 
simply  in  the  background.  In  the  foreground,  for  the 
moment,  were  a  long  white  road  running  through  a 
river  valley,  and  little  fortress  cities  cresting  rocky 
hills,  and  the  black  notes  of  the  cypresses  striking  on 
a  background  of  silver  olives.  In  these  Peter  believed  'r 
and  he  believed  in  blue  Berovieri  goblets,  and  Gobelin 
tapestries,  and  in  a  great  many  other  things  that  he 
had  seen  and  saw  at  this  moment ;  he  believed  intensely, 
with  a  poignant  vividness  of  delight,  in  all  things  visi- 
ble. For  the  rest,  it  was  not  that  he  doubted  or  won- 
dered much;  he  had  not  thought  about  it  enough  for 
that;  but  it  was  all  very  remote.  What  was  spirit, 
apart  from  form?  Could  it  be?  If  so,  would  it  be 
valuable  or  admirable  ?  It  was  the  shapes  and  colours 
of  things,  after  all,  that  mattered.  As  to  the  pre-ex- 
istence  of  things  and  their  hereafter,  Peter  seldom 
speculated;  he  knew  that  it  was  through  entering  the 
workshop  (or  the  play-room,  he  would  rather  have 
said)  of  the  phenomenal,  where  the  idea  took  limiting 
lines  and  definite  shape  and  the  tangible  charm  of  the 
sense-apprehended,  that  life  for  him  became  life.  Rod- 
ney attained  to  his  real  by  looking  through  the  manifold 
veils  of  the  phenomenal,  as  through  so  much  glass; 
Peter  to  his  by  an  adoring  delight  in  their  complex 
loveliness.  He  was  not  a  symbolist ;  he  had  no  love  of 


56  THE  LEE  SHORE 

mystic  hints  and  mist-veiled  distances;  he  was  George 
Herbert's 

Man  who  looks  on  glass 
And  on  it  rests  his  eye, 

because  glass  was  so  extremely  jolly.  Rodney  looked 
with  the  mystic's  eyes  on  life  revealed  and  emerging 
behind  its  symbols;  Peter  with  the  artist's  on  life  ex- 
pressed in  the  clean  and  lovely  shapes  of  things,  their 
colours  and  tangible  sweetness.  To  Peter  Rodney's 
idealism  would  have  been  impossibly  remote;  things, 
as  things,  had  a  delightful  concrete  reality  that  was  its 
own  justification.  They  needed  to  interpret  nothing; 
they  were  themselves;  no  veils,  but  the  very  inner 
sanctuary. 

Both  creeds,  that  of  things  visible  and  that  of  the 
idea,  were  good,  and  suited  to  the  holders;  but  for 
those  on  whom  fortune  frequently  frowns,  for  those 
whose  destiny  it  is  to  lose  and  break  and  not  to  attain, 
Peter's  has  drawbacks.  Things  do  break  so ;  break  and 
get  lost  and  are  no  more  seen ;  and  that  hurts  horribly. 
Remains  the  idea,  Rodney  would  have  said;  that,  be- 
ing your  own,  does  not  get  lost  unless  you  throw  it 
away;  and,  unless  you  are  a  fool,  you  don't  throw  it 
away  until  you  have  something  better  to  take  its  place. 

Anyhow  they  walked  all  day  and  slept  on  the  road. 
On  the  third  night  they  slept  in  an  olive  garden;  till 
the  moon,  striking  in  silver  slants  between  silver  trees, 
lit  on  Rodney's  face,  and  he  opened  dreamy  eyes  on  a 
pale,  illumined  world.  At  his  side  Peter,  still  in  the 
shadows,  slept  rolled  up  in  a  bag.  Rodney  slept  with 
a  thin  plaid  shawl  over  his  knees.  He  glanced  for  a 
moment  at  Peter's  pale  face,  a  little  pathetic  in  sleep, 
a  little  amused  too  at  the  corners  of  the  lightly-closed 
lips.  Rodney's  brief  regard  was  rather  friendly  and 


THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER          57 

affectionate;  then  lie  turned  from  the  dreaming  Peter 
to  the  dreaming  world.  They  had  gone  to  sleep  in  a 
dark  blue  night  lit  by  golden  stars,  and  the  olive  trees 
had  stood  dark  and  unwhispering  about  them,  gnarled 
shapes,  waiting  their  transformation.  Now  there  had 
emerged  a  white  world,  a  silver  mystery,  a  pale  dream ; 
and  for  Rodney  the  reality  that  shone  always  behind 
the  shadow-foreground  dropped  the  shadows  like  a  veil 
and  emerged  in  clean  and  bare  translucence  of  truth. 
The  dome  of  many-coloured  glass  was  here  transcended, 
its  stain  absorbed  in  the  white  radiance  of  the  elucidat- 
ing moon.  So  elucidating  was  the  moon's  light  that  it 
left  no  room  for  confusion  or  doubt.  So  eternally 
silver  were  the  still  ranks  of  the  olives  that  one  could 
imagine  no  transformation  there.  That  was  the  pale 
and  immutable  light  that  lit  all  the  worlds.  Getting 
through  and  behind  the  most  visible  and  obvious  of  the 
worlds  one  was  in  the  sphere  of  true  values ;  they  lay  all 
about,  shining  in  unveiled  strangeness,  eternally  and 
unalterably  lit.  So  Rodney,  who  had  his  own  value- 
system,  saw  them. 

Peter  too  was  caught  presently  into  the  luminous 
circle,  and  stirred,  and  opened  pleased  and  friendly 
eyes  on  the  white  night  —  Peter  was  nearly  always  po- 
lite, even  to  those  who  woke  him  —  then,  half  apolo- 
getically, made  as  if  to  snuggle  again  into  sleep,  but 
Rodney  put  out  a  long  thin  arm  and  shoved  him,  and 
said,  "  It's  time  to  get  up,  you  slacker,"  and  Peter  mur- 
mured : 

"  Oh,  bother,  all  right,  have  you  made  tea  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Rodney.  "  You  can  do  without  tea  this 
morning." 

Peter  sat  up  and  began  to  fumble  in  his  knapsack. 

"  I  see  no  morning,"  he  patiently  remarked,  as  he 
struck  a  match  and  lit  a  tiny  spirit-lamp.  "  I  see  no 


58  THE  LEE  SHORE 

morning;  and  whether  there  is  a  morning  or  merely  a 
moon  I  cannot  do  without  tea.  Or  biscuits." 

He  found  the  biscuits,  and  apparently  they  had  been 
underneath  him  all  night. 

"  I  thought  the  ground  felt  even  pricklier  than 
usual,"  he  commented.  "  I  do  have  such  dreadfully 
bad  luck,  don't  I.  Crumbs,  Rodney?  They're  quite 
good,  for  crumbs.  Better  than  crusts,  anyhow.  I 
should  think  even  you  could  eat  crumbs  without  pam- 
pering yourself.  And  if  crumbs  then  tea,  or  you'll 
choke.  Here  you  are." 

He  poured  tea  into  two  collapsible  cups  and  passed 
one  to  Eodney,  who  had  been  discoursing  for  some  time 
on  his  special  topic,  the  art  of  doing  without. 

Then  Peter,  drinking  tea  and  munching  crumbs,  sat 
up  in  his  bag  and  looked  at  what  Rodney  described  as 
the  morning.  He  saw  how  the  long,  pointed  olive 
leaves  stood  with  sharp  edges  against  pale  light;  how 
the  silver  screen  was,  if  one  looked  into  it,  a  thing  of 
magic  details  of  delight,  of  manifold  shapes  and  sharp 
little  shadowings  and  delicate  tracery;  how  gnarled 
stems  were  light-touched  and  shadow-touched  and  silver 
and  black;  how  the  night  was  delicate,  marvellous,  a 
radiant  wonder  of  clear  loveliness,  illustrated  by  a  large 
white  moon.  Peter  saw  it  and  smiled.  He  did  not 
see  Rodney's  world,  but  his  own. 

But  both  saw  how  the  large  moon  dipped  and 
dipped.  Soon  it  would  dip  below  the  dim  land's  rim, 
and  the  olive  trees  would  be  blurred  and  twisted  shad- 
ows in  a  still  shadow-world. 

"  Then,"  said  Peter  dreamily,  "  we  shall  be  able  to  go 
to  sleep  again." 

Rodney  pulled  him  out  of  his  bag  and  firmly  rolled 
it  up. 

"  Twelve  kilometres  from  breakfast.     Thirty  from 


THE  COMPLETE  SHOPPER  59 

tea.     "No,  we  don't  tea  before  Florence.     Go  and  wash." 

They  washed  in  a  copper  bucket  that  hung  beside 
a  pulley  well.  It  was  rather  fun  washing,  till  Peter 
let  the  bucket  slip  off  the  hook  and  gurgle  down  to  the 
bottom.  Then  it  was  rather  fun  fishing  for  it  with 
the  hook,  but  it  was  not  caught,  and  they  abandoned  it 
in  sudden  alarm  at  a  distant  sound,  and  hastily  scram- 
bled out  of  the  olive  garden  onto  the  white  road. 

Beneath  their  feet  lay  the  thick  soft  dust,  unstirred 
as  yet  by  the  day's  journeyings.  The  wayfaring  smell 
of  it  caught  at  their  breath.  Before  them  the  pale  road 
wound  and  wound,  between  the  silver  secrecy  of  the 
olive  woods,  towards  the  journeying  moon  that  dipped 
above  a  far  and  hidden  city  in  the  west.  Then  a  dim 
horizon  took  the  dipping  moon,  and  there  remained  a 
grey  road  that  smelt  of  dust  and  ran  between  shadowed 
gardens  that  showed  no  more  their  eternal  silver,  but 
gnarled  and  twisted  stems  that  mocked  and  leered. 

One  traveller  stepped  out  of  his  clear  circle  of 
illumined  values  into  the  shrouded  dusk  of  the  old 
accustomed  mystery,  and  the  road  ran  faint  to  his  eyes 
through  a  blurred  land,  and  he  had  perforce  to  take  up 
again  the  quest  of  the  way  step  by  step.  Reality,  for  a 
lucid  space  of  time  emerging,  had  slipped  again  behind 
the  shadow-veils.  The  ranks  of  the  wan  olives,  waiting 
silently  for  dawn,  held  and  hid  their  secret. 

The  other  traveller  murmured,  "  How  many  tones 
of  grey  do  you  suppose  there  are  in  an  olive  tree  when 
the  moon  has  set?  But  there'll  be  more  presently. 
Listen.  .  .  ." 

The  little  wind  that  comes  before  the  dawn  stirred 
and  shivered,  and  disquieted  the  silence  of  the  dim 
woods.  Peter  knew  how  the  stirred  leaves  would  be 
shivering  white,  only  in  the  dark  twilight  one  could  not 
see. 


60  THE  LEE  SHORE 

The  dusk  paled  and  paled.  Soon  one  would  catch  the 
silver  of  upturned  leaves. 

On  the  soft  deep  dust  the  treading  feet  of  the  travel- 
lers moved  quietly.  One  walked  with  a  light  uneven- 
ness,  a  slight  limp. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   SPLENDID    MORNING 

"  LISTEN,"  said  Peter  again ;  and  some  far  off  thing 
was  faintly  jarring  the  soft  silence,  on  a  crescendo  note. 

Rodney  listened,  and  murmured,  "  Brute."  He 
hated  them  more  than  Peter  did.  He  was  less  wide- 
minded  and  less  sweet-tempered.  Peter  had  a  gentle 
and  not  intolerant  aesthetic  aversion,  Rodney  a  fervid 
moral  indignation. 

It  came  storming  over  the  rims  of  twilight  out  of 
an  unhorn  dawn,  and  the  soft  dust  surged  behind. 
Its  eyes  flamed,  and  lit  the  pale  world.  It  was  run- 
ning to  the  city  in  the  dim  west ;  it  was  in  a  hurry ;  it 
would  be  there  for  breakfast.  As  it  ran  it  played  the 
opening  bars  of  something  of  Tchaichowsky's. 

Rodney  and  Peter  leant  over  the  low  white  wall  and 
gazed  into  grey  shivering  gardens.  So  could  they  show 
aloof  contempt ;  so  could  they  elude  the  rioting  dust. 

The  storming  took  a  diminuendo  note;  it  slackened 
to  a  throbbing  murmur.  The  brute  had  stopped,  and 
close  to  them.  The  brute  was  investigating  itself. 

"  Perhaps,"  Rodney  hoped,  but  not  sanguinely, 
"  they'll  have  to  push  it  all  the  way  to  Florence." 
Still  contempt  withheld  a  glance. 

Then  a  pleasant,  soft  voice  broke  the  hushed  dusk 
with  half  a  laugh,  and  Peter  wheeled  sharply  about. 
The  man  who  had  laughed  was  climbing  again  into 
his  seat,  saying,  "  It's  quite  all  right."  That  remark 
was  extremely  characteristic ;  it  would  have  been  a  suit- 
able motto  for  his  whole  career. 

6* 


62  THE  LEE  SHORE 

The  next  thing  he  said,  in  his  gentle,  unsurprised 
voice,  was  to  the  bare-headed  figure  that  smiled  up  at 
him  from  the  road. 

"  You,  Margery  ?  .  .  .  What  a  game.  But  what 
have  you  done  with  the  Hebrew?  Oh,  that's  Stephen, 
isn't  it.  That  accounts  for  it:  but  how  did  he  get 
you?  I  say,  you  can't  have  slept  anywhere;  there's 
been  nowhere,  for  miles.  And  have  you  left  Leslie  to 
roam  alone  among  the  Objects  of  Beauty  with  his  own 
unsophisticated  taste  for  guide  ?  I  suppose  he's  chucked 
you  at  last;  very  decent-spirited  of  him,  I  think,  don't 
you,  Stephen  ? " 

"  I  chucked  him,"  Peter  explained,  "  because  he 
bought  a  sham  Carlo  Dolci.  I  drew  the  line  at  that. 
Though  if  one  must  have  a  Carlo  Dolci,  I  suppose  it 
had  better  be  a  sham  one,  on  the  whole.  Anyhow,  I 
came  away  and  took  to  the  road.  We  sleep  in  ditches, 
and  we  like  it  very  much,  and  I  make  tea  every  morn- 
ing in  my  little  kettle.  I'm  going  to  Florence  to  help 
Leslie  to  buy  bronze  things  for  his  grates  —  dogs,  you 
know,  and  shovels  and  things.  Leslie  will  have  been 
there  for  three  days  now;  I  do  wonder  what  he's 
bought." 

"  You'd  better  come  on  in  the  car,"  Urquhart  said. 
"  Both  of  you.  Why  is  Stephen  looking  so  proud  ?  I 
shall  be  at  Florence  for  breakfast.  You  won't,  though. 
Bad  luck.  Come  along;  there's  loads  of  room." 

Rodney  stood  by  the  wall.  He  was  unlike  Peter 
in  this,  that  his  resentment  towards  a  person  who 
motored  across  Tuscany  between  dusk  and  dawn  was 
in  no  way  lessened  by  the  discovery  of  who  it  was. 

Peter  stood,  his  feet  deep  in  dust,  and  smiled  at 
Urquhart.  Rodney  watched  the  two  a  little  cynically 
from  the  wall.  Peter  looked  what  he  was  —  a  limping 
vagabond  tramp,  dust-smeared,  bare-headed,  very  much 


THE  SPLENDID  MORNING  63 

part  of  the  twilight  road.  In  spite  of  his  knapsack,  he 
had  the  air  of  possessing  nothing  and  smiling  over  the 
thought. 

Peter  said,  "  How  funny,"  meaning  the  combination 
of  Urquhart  and  the  motor-car  and  Tuscany  and  the 
grey  dawn  and  Rodney  and  himself;  Urquhart  was 
smiling  down  at  them,  his  face  pale  in  the  strange  dawn- 
twilight.  The  scene  was  symbolical  of  their  whole  re- 
lations; it  seemed  as  if  Urquhart,  lifted  triumphantly 
above  the  road's  dust,  had  always  so  smiled  down  on 
Peter,  in  his  vagabond  weakness. 

"  I  don't  think,"  Urquhart  was  saying,  "  that  you 
ought  to  walk  so  far  in  the  night.  It's  weakening." 
To  Urquhart  Peter  had  always  been  a  brittle  incom- 
petent, who  could  not  do  things,  who  kept  breaking  into 
bits  if  roughly  handled. 

"  Eodney  and  I  don't  think,"  Peter  returned,  in  the 
.hushed  voice  that  belonged  to  the  still  hour,  "  that  you 
ought  to  motor  so  loud  in  the  night.  It's  common. 
Eodney  specially  thinks  so.  Eodney  is  sulking;  he 
won't  come  and  speak  to  you." 

Urquhart  called  to  his  cousin :  "  Come  with  me  to 
Florence,  you  and  Margery.  Or  do  you  hate  them  too 
much?" 

"  Much  too  much,"  Eodney  admitted,  coming  for- 
wards perforce.  "  Thank  you,"  he  added,  "  but  I'm 
on  a  walking  tour,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  spoil  it. 
Margery  isn't,  though.  You  go,  Margery,  if  you 
like." 

Urquhart  said,  "  Do,  Margery,"  and  Peter  looked 
wistful,  but  declined.  He  wanted  horribly  badly  to 
go  with  Urquhart ;  but  loyalty  hindered. 

Urquhart  said  he  was  going  to  Venice  afterwards, 
to  stay  with  his  uncle  Evelyn. 

"  Good,"  said  Peter.     "  Leslie  and  I  are  going  to 


64  THE  LEE  SHORE 

do  Venice  directly  we've  cleared  Florence  of  its  Ob- 
jects of  Beauty.  You  can  imagine  the  way  Leslie  will 
go  about  Florence,  his  purse  in  his  hand,  asking  the 
price  of  the  Bargello.  '  Worth  having,  isn't  it  ?  A 
good  thing,  I  think  ? '  If  we  decide  that  it  is  he'll 
have  it,  whatever  the  price;  he  always  does.  He's  a 
sportsman ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  attached  I  am  to  him." 
Peter  had  not  told  even  Urquhart  that  one  was  ever 
glad  of  a  rest  from  Leslie. 

Urquhart  said,  "  Well,  if  you  won't  come,"  and 
hummed  into  the  paling  twilight,  and  before  him  fled 
the  circle  of  golden  light  and  after  him  swept  the 
dust.  Peter's  eyes  followed  the  golden  light  and  the 
surging  whiteness  till  a  bend  in  the  road  took  them,  and 
the  world  was  again  dim  and  grey  and  very  still.  Only 
the  little  cool  wind  that  soughed  among  the  olive  leaves 
was  like  the  hushed  murmuring  of  quiet  waves.  East- 
wards, among  the  still,  mysterious  hills  and  silver 
plains,  a  translucent  dawn  was  coming. 

Peter's  sigh  was  very  unobtrusive.  "  After  all,"  he 
murmured,  "  motoring  does  make  me  feel  sick." 

Rodney  gave  half  a  cynical  smile  with  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  not  occupied  with  his  short  and  ugly  pipe. 
Peter  was  pipeless ;  smoking,  perhaps,  had  the  same  dis- 
astrous effect. 

"  But  all  the  same,"  said  Peter,  suddenly  aggrieved, 
"  you  might  be  pleasant  to  your  own  cousin,  even  if 
he  is  in  a  motor.  Why  be  proud  ?  " 

He  was  really  a  little  vexed  that  Rodney  should  look 
with  aloofness  on  Urquhart.  For  him  Urquhart  em- 
bodied the  brilliance  of  life,  its  splendidness  and  beauty 
and  joy.  Rodney,  with  his  fanatical  tilting  at  pros- 
perity, would,  Peter  half  consciously  knew,  have  to  see 
Urquhart  unhorsed  and  stripped  bare  before  he  would 
take  much  notice  of  him. 


65 

"  Too  many  things,"  said  Rodney,  indistinctly  over 
his  thick  pipe.  "  That's  all." 

Peter,  irritated,  said,  "  The  old  story.  The  more 
things  the  better;  -why  not?  You'd  be  happy  on  a 
desert  island  full  of  horrid  naked  savages.  You  think 
you're  civilised,  but  you're  really  the  most  primitive  per- 
son I  know." 

Rodney  said  he  was  glad;  he  liked  to  be  primitive, 
and  added,  "  But  you're  wrong,  of  course.  The  naked 
savages  would  like  anything  they  could  get  —  beads 
or  feathers  or  top  hats;  they're  not  natural  ascetics; 
the  simple  life  is  enforced.  ...  St.  Francis  took  off 
all  his  clothes  in  the  Piazza  and  began  his  new  career 
without  any." 

"  Disgusting,"  murmured  Peter. 

"  That,"  said  Rodney,  "  is  what  people  like  Denis 
should  do.  They  need  to  unload,  strip  bare,  to  find 
themselves,  to  find  life." 

"  Denis,"  said  Peter,  "  is  the  most  alive  person  I 
know,  as  it  happens.  He's  found  life  without  needing 
to  take  his  clothes  off  —  so  he  scores  over  St.  Francis." 

Denis  had  rushed  through  the  twilight  vivid  like  a 
flame  —  he  had  lit  it  for  a  moment  and  left  it  grey. 
Peter  knew  that 

"  But  he  hasn't,"  Rodney  maintained,  "  got  the  key 
of  the  thing.  If  he  did  take  his  clothes  off,  it  would  be 
a  toss-up  whether  he  found  more  life  or  lost  what  he's 
got.  That's  all  wrong,  don't  you  see.  That's  what  ails 
all  these  delightful,  prosperous  people.  They're  swim- 
ming with  life-belts." 

"  You'll  be  saying  next,"  said  Peter,  disgusted,  "  that 
you  admire  Savonarola  and  his  bonfire." 

"  I  do,  of  course.  But  he'd  only  got  hold  of  half 
of  it  —  half  the  gospel  of  the  empty-handed.  The  point 
is  to  lose  and  laugh."  For  a  moment  Rodney  had  a 


66  THE  LEE  SHORE 

vision  of  Peter  standing  bare-headed  in  the  dust  and 
smiling.  "  To  drop  all  the  trappings  and  still  find  life 
jolly  —  just  because  it  is  life,  not  because  of  what  it 
brings.  That's  what  St.  Francis  did.  That's  where 
Italy  scores  over  England.  I  remember  at  Lerici  the 
beggars  laughing  on  the  shore,  with  a  little  maccaroni 
to  last  them  the  day.  There  was  a  man  all  done  up 
in  bandages,  hopping  about  on  crutches  and  grinning. 
Smashed  to  bits,  and  his  bones  sticking  out  of  his  skin 
for  hunger,  but  there  was  the  sun  and  the  sea  and  the 
game  he  was  playing  with  dice,  and  he  looked  as  if  he 
was  saying,  '  Nihil  habentes,  omnia  possidentes;  isn't 
it  a  jolly  day  ? '  When  Denis  says  that,  I  shall  begin 
to  have  hopes  for  him.  At  present  he  thinks  it's  a 
jolly  day  because  he's  got  money  to  throw  about  and  a 
hundred  and  one  games  to  play  at  and  friends  to  play 
them  with,  and  everything  his  own  way,  and  a  new 
motor.  .  .  .  Well,  but  look  at  that  now.  Isn't  it  bare 
and  splendid  —  all  clean  lines  —  no  messing  and  soft- 
ness; it  might  be  cut  out  of  rock.  Oh,  I  like  Tus- 
cany." 

They  had  rounded  a  bend,  and  a  spacious  country 
lay  there  stretched  to  the  morning,  and  over  it  the 
marvel  of  the  dawn  opened  and  blossomed  like  a  flower. 
From  the  basin  of  the  shining  river  the  hills  stood  back, 
and  up  their  steep  sides  the  vine-hung  mulberries  and 
close-trimmed  olives  climbed  (olives  south  of  the 
Serchio  are  diligently  pruned,  and  lack  the  generous 
luxuriance  of  the  north),  and  against  the  silver  back- 
ground the  sentinel  cypresses  stood  black,  like  sharp 
music  notes  striking  abruptly  into  a  vague  symphony; 
and  among  the  mulberry  gardens  and  the  olives  and 
the  cypresses  white  roads  climbed  and  spiralled  up  to 
little  cresting  cities  that  took  the  rosy  dawn.  Tuscany 
emerging  out  of  the  dim  mystery  of  night  had  a  splen- 


THE  SPLENDID  MORNING          67 

did  clarity,  an  unblurred  cleanness  of  line,  an  austere 
fineness,  as  of  a  land  hewn  sharply  out  of  rock. 

Peter  would  not  have  that  fine  bareness  used  as  illus- 
tration ;  it  was  too  good  a  thing  in  itself.  Kodney  the 
symbolist  saw  the  vision  of  life  in  it,  Peter  the  joy  of 
self-sufficient  beauty. 

The  quiet  road  bore  them  through  the  hushed 
translucence  of  the  dawn-clear  land.  Everything  was 
silent  in  this  limpid  hour;  the  little  wind  that  had 
whitened  the  olives  and  set  the  sea-waves  whispering 
there  had  dropped  now  and  lay  very  still. 

The  road  ran  level  through  the  river  basin.  Ear 
ahead  they  could  see  it  now,  a  white  ribbon  laid  beside 
a  long  golden  gleam  that  wound  and  wound. 

Peter  sighed,  seeing  so  much  of  it  all  at  once,  and 
stopped  to  rest  on  the  low  white  wall,  but  instead  of 
sitting  on  it  he  swayed  suddenly  forward,  and  the  hill 
cities  circled  close  about  him,  and  darkened  and  shut 
out  the  dawn. 

The  smell  of  the  dust,  when  one  was  close  to  it,  was 
bitter  and  odd.  Somewhere  in  the  further  darkness  a 
voice  was  muttering  mild  and  perplexed  imprecations. 
Peter  moved  on  the  strong  arm  that  was  supporting  him 
and  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  on  the  world  again. 
Between  him  and  the  rosy  morning,  Rodney  loomed 
large,  pouring  whisky  into  a  flask. 

It  all  seemed  a  very  old  and  often-repeated  tale. 
One  could  not  do  anything;  one  could  not  even  go 
a  walking-tour:  one  could  not  (of  this  one  was  quite 
sure)  take  whisky  at  this  juncture  without  feeling  hor- 
ribly sick.  The  only  thing  that  occurred  to  Peter,  in 
the  face  of  the  dominant  Rodney,  was  to  say,  "  I'm  a 
teetotaller."  Rodney  nodded  and  held  the  flask  to  his 
lips.  Rodney  was  looking  rather  worried. 

Peter  said  presently,  still  at  length  in  the  dust,  "  I'm 


68  THE  LEE  SHORE 

frightfully  sorry.     I  suppose  I'm  tired.     Didn't  we  get 
up  rather  early  and  walk  rather  fast  ? " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Rodney,  "  you  oughtn't  to  have 
come.  What's  wrong,  you  rotter  ?  " 

Peter  sat  up,  and  there  lay  the  road  again,  stretching 
and  stretching  into  the  pink  morning. 

"  Thirty  kilometres  to  breakfast,"  murmured  Peter. 
"And  I  don't  know  that  I  want  any,  even  then. 
Wrong?  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  .  well,  I  suppose  it's  heart.  I 
have  one,  you  know,  of  a  sort.  A  nuisance,  it's  always 
been.  Not  dangerous,  but  just  in  the  way.  I'm  sorry, 
Rodney  —  I  really  am." 

Rodney  said  again,  "  You  absolute  rotter.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  ?  What  in  the  name  of  anything  in- 
duced you  to  walk  at  all  ?  You  needn't  have." 

Peter  looked  down  the  long  road  that  wound  and 
wound  into  the  morning  land.  "  I  wanted  to,"  he  said. 
"  I  wanted  to  most  awfully.  ...  I  wanted  to  try  it. 
...  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  the  one  thing.  .  .  . 
Football's  off  for  me,  you  know — 'and  most  other 
things.  .  .  .  Only  diabolo  left  .  .  .  and  ping-pong 
.  .  .  and  jig-saw.  I'm  quite  good  at  those  .  .  .  but 
oh,,  I  did  want  to  be  able  to  walk.  Horribly  I 
wanted  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Rodney  practically,  "  it's  extremely  ob- 
vious that  you  aren't.  You  ought  to  have  got  into  that 
thing,  of  course.  Only  then,  as  you  remarked,  you 
would  have  felt  sick.  Really,  Margery.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  Peter  stopped  him  hastily.  "  Don't 
say  the  usual  things;  I  really  feel  too  unwell  to  bear 
them.  I  know  I'm  made  in  Germany  and  all  that  — 
I've  been  hearing  so  all  my  life.  And  now  I  should 
like  you  to  go  on  to  Florence,  and  I'll  follow,  very  slow. 
It's  all  very  well,  Rodney,  but  you  were  going  at  about 
seven  miles  an  hour.  Talk  of  motors  —  I  couldn't  see 


THE  SPLENDID  MORNING  69 

the  scenery  as  we  rushed  by.     That's  such  a  Vandal- 
like  way  of  crossing  Tuscany." 

"  Well,  you  can  cross  the  rest  of  Tuscany  by  train. 
There's  a  station  at  Montelupo;  we  shall  be  there  di- 
rectly." 

Peter,  abruptly  renouncing  his  intention  of  getting 
up,  lay  back  giddily.  The  marvellous  morning  was 
splendid  on  the  mountains. 

"  How  extremely  lucky,"  remarked  Peter  weakly, 
"  that  I  wasn't  in  this  position  when  Denis  came  by. 
Denis  usually  does  come  by  at  these  crucial  moments 
you  know  —  always  has.  He  probably  thinks  by  now 
that  I  am  an  escaped  inhabitant  of  the  Permanent 
Casualty  Ward.  Bother.  I  wish  he  didn't." 

"  Since  it's  obvious,"  said  Rodney,  "  that  you  can't 
stand,  let  alone  walk,  I  had  better  go  on  to  Montelupo 
and  fetch  a  carriage  of  sorts.  I  wonder  if  you  can  lie 
there  quietly  till  I  come  back,  or  if  you'll  be  having 
seizures  and  things?  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I  must 
go,  anyhow.  There's  the  whisky  on  your  left." 

Peter  watched  him  go;  he  went  at  seven  miles  an 
hour ;  the  dust  ruffled  and  leapt  at  his  heels. 

Peter  sat  very  still  leaning  back  against  the  rough 
white  wall,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  all  was.  What 
a  pity,  and  what  a  bore,  that  one  could  not  do  things 
like  other  people.  Short  of  being  an  Urquhart,  who 
could  do  everything  and  had  everything,  whose  passing 
car  flamed  triumphant  and  lit  the  world  into  a  splen- 
did joy,  and  was  approved  under  investigation  with 
"  quite  all  right " —  short  of  that  glorious  competence 
and  pride  of  life,  one  might  surely  be  an  average  man, 
who  could  walk  from  San  Pietro  to  Florence  without 
tumbling  on  the  road  at  dawn.  Peter  sighed  over  it, 
rather  crossly.  The  marvellous  morning  was  insulted 
by  his  collapse;  it  became  a  remote  thing,  in  which  he 


70  THE  LEE  SHORE 

might  have  no  share.  As  always,  the  inexorable  "  Not 
for  you  "  rose  like  a  barred  gate  between  him  and  the 
lucid  country  the  white  road  threaded. 

Peter  in  the  dust  began  to  whistle  softly,  to  cheer 
himself,  and  because  he  was  really  feeling  better,  and 
because  anyhow,  for  him  or  not  for  him,  the  land  at 
dawn  was  a  golden  and  glorious  thing,  and  he  loved  it. 
What  did  it-  matter  whether  he  could  walk  through  it  or 
not?  There  it  lay,  magical,  clear-hewn,  bathed  in 
golden  sunrise. 

Round  the  turn  of  the  road  a  bent  figure  came,  step- 
ping slowly  and  with  age,  a  woodstack  on  his  back. 
Heavier  even  than  a  knapsack  containing  a  spirit  kettle 
and  a  Decameron  and  biscuit  remainders  in  a  paper  bag, 
it  must  be.  Peter  watched  the  slow  figure  sympathetic- 
ally. Would  he  sway  and  topple  over;  and  if  he  did 
would  the  woodstack  break  his  fall  ?  The  whisky  flask 
stood  ready  on  Peter's  left. 

Peter  stopped  whistling  to  watch;  then  he  became 
aware  that  once  more  the  hidden  distances  were  jarring 
and  humming.  He  sat  upright,  and  waited;  a  little 
space  of  listening,  then  once  again  the  sungod's  chariot 
stormed  into  the  morning. 

Peter  watched  it  grow  in  size.  How  extremely  for- 
tunate. .  .  .  Even  though  one  was  again,  as  usual, 
found  collapsed  and  absurd. 

The  woodstack  pursued  its  slow  advance.  The  music 
from  Tchaichowsky  admonished  it,  as  a  matter  of  form, 
from  far  off,  then  sharply,  summarily,  from  a  lessening 
distance.  The  woodstack  was  puzzled,  vaguely  worried. 
It  stopped,  dubiously  moved  to  one  side,  and  pursued  its 
cautious  way  a  little  uncertainly. 

Urquhart,  without  his  chauffeur  this  time,  was  driv- 
ing over  the  speed-limit,  Peter  perceived.  He  usually 
did.  But  he  ought  to  slacken  his  pace  now,  or  he  would 


THE  SPLENDID  MORNING          71 

miss  Peter  by  the  "wall.  He  was  nearing  the  woodstack, 
just  going  to  pass  it,  with  a  clear  two  yards  between. 
It  was  not  his  doing :  it  was  the  woodstack  that  suddenly 
lessened  the  distance,  lurching  over  it,  taking  the  middle 
of  the  road. 

Peter  cried,  "  Oh,  don't  —  oh,  don't,"  idiotically, 
sprawling  on  hands  and  knees. 

The  car  swung  sharply  about  like  a  tugged  horse; 
sprang  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  hung  poised  on 
a  wheel,  as  near  as  possible  capsized.  A  less  violent 
jerk  and  it  would  have  gone  clean  over  the  woodstack 
that  lay  in  the  road  on  the  top  of  its  bearer. 

By  the  time  Peter  got  there,  Urquhart  had  lifted  the 
burden  from  the  old  bent  figure  that  lay  face  down- 
wards. Gently  he  turned  it  over,  and  they  looked  on  a 
thin  old  face  gone  grey  with  more  than  age. 

"  He  can't  be,"  said  Urquhart.  "  He  can't  be.  I 
didn't  touch  him." 

Peter  said  nothing.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  broken 
end  of  a  chestnut-stick  protruding  from  the  faggot, 
dangling  loose  by  its  bark.  Urquhart's  glance  followed 
his. 

"I  see,"  said  Urquhart  quietly.  "That  did  it. 
The  lamp  or  something  must  have  struck  it  and  knocked 
him  over.  Poor  old  chap."  Urquhart's  hand  shook 
over  the  still  heart.  Peter  gave  him  the  whisky  flask. 
Two  minutes  passed.  It  was  no  good. 

"  His  heart  must  have  been  bad,"  said  Urquhart,  and 
the  soft  tones  of  his  pleasant  voice  were  harsh  and  un- 
steady. "  Shock,  I  suppose.  How  —  how  absolutely 
awful." 

How  absolutely  incongruous,  Peter  was  dully  think- 
ing. Urquhart  and  tragedy;  Urquhart  and  death.  It 
was  that  which  blackened  the  radiant  morning,  not  the 
mercifully  abrupt  cessation  of  a  worn-out  life.  For 


72  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter  death  had  two  sharply  differentiated  aspects  —  one 
of  release  to  the  tired  and  old,  for  whom  the  grass- 
hopper was  a  burden ;  the  other  of  an  unthinkable  black- 
ness of  tragedy  —  sheer  sharp  loss  that  knew  no  com- 
pensation. It  was  not  with  this  bitter  face  that  death 
had  stepped  into  their  lives  on  this  clear  morning.  One 
could  imagine  that  weary  figure  glad  to  end  his  way- 
faring so;  one  could  even  imagine  those  steps  to  death 
deliberately  taken;  and  one  did  imagine  those  he  left 
behind  him  accepting  his  peace  as  theirs. 

Peter  said,  "  It  wasn't  your  fault.  It  was  his  doing 
—  poor  chap." 

The  uncertain  quaver  in  his  voice  brought  TJrquhart's 
eyes  for  a  moment  upon  his  face,  that  was  always  pale 
and  was  now  the  colour  of  putty. 

"  You're  ill,  aren't  you  ?  .  .  .  I  met  Stephen.  .  .  . 
I  was  coming  back  anyhow;  I  knew  you  weren't  fit  to 
walk." 

He  muttered  it  absently,  frowning  down  on  the  other 
greyer  face  in  the  grey  dust.  Again  his  hand  unstead- 
ily groped  over  the  still  heart,  and  lay  there  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

Abruptly  then  he  looked  up,  and  met  Peter's  shadow- 
circled  eyes, 

"  I  was  over-driving,"  he  said.  "  I  ought  to  have 
slowed  down  to  pass  him."  He  stood  up,  frowning 
down  on  the  two  in  the  road. 

"  We've  got  to  think  now,"  he  said,  "  what  to  do 
about  it" 

To  that  thinking  Peter  offered  no  help  and  no  hin- 
drance. He  sat  in  the  road  by  the  dead  man  and  the 
bundle  of  wood,  and  looked  vaguely  on  the  remote  morn- 
ing that  death  had  dimmed.  Denis  and  death:  Peter 
would  have  done  a  great  deal  to  sever  that  incredible 
connection. 


THE  SPLENDID  MORNING  73 

But  it  was,  after  all,  for  Denis  to  effect  that  severing, 
to  cut  himself  loose  from  tLat  oppressing  and  impossible 
weight. 

He  did  so. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Denis,  "  that  we  need  .  .  .  that 
we  can  ...  do  anything  about  it." 

Above  the  clear  mountains  the  sun  swung  up  tri- 
umphant, and  the  wide  river  valley  was  bathed  in 
radiant  gold. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HILARY,    PEGGY,    AND    HER   BOARDERS 

WHEKT  Leslie  and  Peter  went  to  Venice  to  pick  up 
Berovieri  goblets  and  other  things,  Leslie  stayed  at 
the  Hotel  Europa  and  Peter  in  the  Palazzo  Amadeo. 
The  Palazzo  Amadeo  is  a  dilapidated  palace  looking 
onto  the  Rio  delle  Beccarie;  it  is  let  in  flats  to  the 
poor ;  and  in  the  sea-story  suite  of  the  great,  bare,  dingy, 
gilded  rooms  lived  Hilary  and  Peggy  Margerison,  and 
three  disreputable  infants  who  insisted  on  bathing  in  the 
canals,  and  the  boarders.  The  boarders  were  at  the 
moment  six  in  number;  Peter  made  seven.  The  great 
difficulty  with  the  boarders,  Peggy  told  him,  was  to 
make  them  pay.  They  had  so  little  money,  and  such  a 
constitutional  reluctance  to  spend  that  little  on  their 
board. 

"  The  poor  things,"  said  Peggy,  who  had  a  sympa- 
thetic heart.  "  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  for  them,  and  I  hate 
to  ask  them  for  it.  But  one's  got  to  try  and  live." 

She  was  drying  Illuminato  (baptized  in  that  name 
by  his  father's  desire,  but  by  his  mother  called  Micky) 
before  the  stove  in  the  great  dining-room.  Illuminato 
had  just  tumbled  off  the  bottom  step  into  the  water,  and 
had  been  fished  out  by  his  uncle  Peter;  he  was  three, 
and  had  humorous,  screwed-up  eyes  and  a  wide  mouth 
like  a  frog's,  so  that  Hilary,  who  detested  ugliness, 
could  really  hardly  be  fond  of  him.  Peggy  was;  but 
then  Peggy  always  had  more  sense  of  humour  than 
Hilary. 

A  boarder  looked  in  to  see  if  lunch  was  ready.     It 

74 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS    75 

was  not,  but  Peggy  began  preparations  by  screaming 
melodiously  for  Teresina.  They  heard  the  boarder 
sigh.  He  was  a  tall  young  man  with  inspired  eyes  and 
oily  hair.  "  Peter  had  observed  him  the  night  before, 
with  some  interest. 

"  That's  Guy  Vyvian,"  Peggy  told  him,  looking  for 
Illuminato's  dryer  suit  in  the  china  cupboard. 

"  Fancy/'  said  Peter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Peggy,  pulling  out  a  garment  and  drop- 
ping a  plate  out  of  its  folds  on  the  polished  marble 
floor.  "  There  now !  Micky,  you're  a  tiresome  little 
ape  and  I  don't  love  you.  Guy  Vyvian's  an  ape,  too, 
entirely ;  his  one  merit  is  that  he  writes  for  '  The  Gem,' 
so  that  Hilary  can  take  the  rent  he  won't  pay  out  of 
the  money  he  gives  him  for  his  articles.  It  works  out 
pretty  well,  on  the  whole,  I  fancy;  they're  neither  of 
them  good  at  paying,  so  it  saves  them  both  bother. 
(  "  J)  pronto,  Teresina  ? "  "  Subito,  subito,"  cried 
Teresina  from  the  kitchen.)  "  I  can't  abide  Vyvian," 
Peggy  resumed.  "  The  babies  hate  him,  and  he  makes 
himself  horrid  to  everyone,  and  lets  Rhoda  Johnson 
grovel  to  him,  and  stares  at  the  stains  on  the  table- 
cloth, as  if  his  own  nails  weren't  worse,  and  turns  up 
his  nose  at  the  food.  Poor  little  Rhoda!  You  saw 
her  ?  The  little  thin  girl  with  a  cough,  who  hangs  on 
Vyvian's  words  and  blushes  when  her  mother  speaks. 
She's  English  governess  to  the  Marchesa  Azzareto's  chil- 
dren. Mrs.  Johnson's  a  jolly  old  soul ;  I'm  fond  of  her ; 
she's  the  best  of  the  boarders,  by  a  lot.  Now,  precious, 
if  you  tumble  in  again  this  morning,  you  shall  sit  next 
to  Mr.  Vyvian  at  dinner.  You  go  and  tell  the  others 
that  from  me.  It  isn't  respectable,  the  way  you  all 
go  on.  Here's  the  minestra  at  last." 

Teresina,  clattering  about  the  marble  floor  with  the 
minestra,  screamed  "  Pronto,"  very  loud,  and  the 


76  THE  LEE  SHORE 

boarders  trailed  in  one  by  one.  First  came  Mr.  Guy 
Vyvian,  sauntering  with  resignedly  lifted  brows,  and 
looking  as  if  it  ought  to  have  been  ready  a  long  time 
ago;  he  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  stout  and 
pleasant  lady,  who  looked  as  if  she  was  only  too  de- 
lighted that  it  was  ready  now,  and  the  more  the  bet- 
ter; her  young  daughter,  Rhoda,  wearing  a  floppy 
smocked  frock  and  no  collar  but  a  bead  necklace, 
coughed  behind  her ;  she  looked  pale  and  fatigued,  and 
as  if  it  didn't  matter  in  the  least  if  it  was  never  ready 
at  all.  She  was  being  talked  to  by  a  round-faced, 
fluffy-haired  lady  in  a  green  dress  and  pince-nez,  who 
took  an  interest  in  the  development  of  her  deplorably 
uncultured  young  mind  —  a  Miss  Barnett,  who  was 
painting  pictures  to  illustrate  a  book  to  be  called 
"  Venice,  Her  Spirit."  The  great  hope  for  young 
Rhoda,  both  Miss  Barnett  and  Mr.  Vyvian  felt,  was 
to  widen  the  gulf  between  her  and  her  unspeakable 
mother.  They,  who  quarrelled  about  everything  else, 
were  united  in  this  enterprise.  The  method  adopted 
was  to  snub  Mrs.  Johnson  whenever  she  spoke.  That 
was  no  doubt  why,  as  Peggy  had  told  Peter,  Rhoda 
blushed  on  those  frequent  occasions. 

The  party  was  completed  by  a  very  young  curate, 
and  an  elderly  spinster  with  mittens  and  many  ail- 
ments, the  symptoms  of  which  she  lucidly  specified  in 
a  refined  undertone  to  any  lady  who  would  listen ;  with 
gentlemen,  however,  she  was  most  discreet,  except  with 
the  curate,  who  complained  that  his  cloth  was  no  pro- 
tection. Finally  Hilary  came  in  and  took  the  head  of 
the  table,  and  Peggy  and  the  children  took  the  other 
end.  Peter  found  himself  between  Mrs.  Johnson  and 
Miss  Barnett,  and  opposite  Mr.  Vyvian  and  Rhoda. 

Mrs.  Johnson  began  to  be  nice  to  him  at  once,  in  her 
cheery  way. 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS     77 

"  Know  Venice  ? "  and  when  Peter  said,  "  Not  yet," 
she  told  him,  "  Ah,  you'll  like  it,  I  know.  So  pleas- 
ant as  it  is.  Particlerly  for  young  people.  It  gives 
me  rheumatics,  so  much  damp  about.  But  my  gel 
Rhoder  is  that  fond  of  it.  Spends  all  her  spare  time 
—  not  as  she's  got  much,  poor  gel  —  in  the  gall'ries  and 
that.  Art,  you  know.  She  goes  in  for  it,  Ehoder 
does.  I  don't,  now.  I'm  a  stupid  old  thing,  as  they'll 
all  tell  you."  She  nodded  cheerfully  and  inclusively 
at  Mr.  Vyvian  and  Ehoda  and  Miss  Barnett.  They 
did  not  notice.  Vyvian,  toying  disgustedly  with  his 
burnt  minestra,  was  saying  in  his  contemptuous  voice, 
"  Of  course,  if  you  like  ihai,  you  may  as  well  like  the 
Frari  monuments  at  once  and  have  done." 

Khoda  was  crimson;  she  had  made  another  mistake. 
Miss  Barnett,  who  disputed  the  office  of  mentor  with 
Vyvian,  whom  she  jealously  disliked,  broke  in,  in  her 
cheery  chirp,  "  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Vyvian.  I 
consider  it  a  very  fine  example  of  Carpaccio's  later 
style;  I  think  you  will  find  that  some  good  critics  are 
with  me."  She  addressed  Peter,  ignoring  the  inter- 
vening solidity  of  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  Do  you  support  me, 
Mr.  Margerison  ? " 

"  Pve  not  seen  it  yet,"  Peter  said  rather  timidly. 
"  It  sounds  very  nice." 

Miss  Barnett  gave  him  a  rather  contemptuous  look 
through  her  pince-nez  and  turned  to  Hilary. 

"  Lor !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Johnson  to  Peter.  "  They 
do  get  so  excited  about  pictures.  Just  like  that  they 
go  on  all  day,  squabblin'  and  peckin'  each  other.  Al- 
ways at  Rhoder  they  are  too,  tellin'  her  she  must  think 
this  and  mustn't  think  that,  till  the  poor  gel  don't  know 
if  she's  on  her  head  or  her  heels.  She  don't  like  me 
to  interfere,  or  it's  all  I  can  do  .sometimes  not  to  put 
in  my  word  and  say,  '  You  stick  to  it,  Rhoder  my  dear; 


78  THE  LEE  SHORE 

you  stand  up  to  'em  and  jour  mother'll  back  you.'  But 
Rhoder  don't  like  that.  '  Mother,'  she  says,  quite 
sharp,  '  Mother,  you  don't  know  a  thing  about  Art,  and 
they  do.  You  let  be,  and  don't  put  me  to  shame  before 
my  friends.'  That's  what  she'd  like  to  say,  anyhow, 
if  she's  too  good  a  gel  to  say  it.  Khoder's  ashamed 
of  my  ignorance,  that's  what  it  is."  This  was  a  furtive 
whisper,  for  Peter's  ear  alone.  Having  thus  unbur- 
dened herself  Mrs.  Johnson  cleared  her  throat  noisily 
and  said  very  loud,  "  An'  what  do  you  think  of  St. 
Mark's  ? "  That  was  a  sensible  and  intelligent  ques- 
tion, and  she  hoped  Ehoda  heard. 

Peter  said  he  thought  it  was  very  nice.  That  Rhoda 
certainly  heard,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  a  curious 
expression,  in  which  hope  predominated.  Was  this 
brother  of  the  Margerisons  another  fool,  worse  than  her  ? 
Would  he  perhaps  make  her  folly  shine  almost  like 
wisdom  by  comparison  ?  She  exchanged  a  glance  with 
Vyvian;  it  was  extraordinarily  sweet  to  be  able  to  do 
that;  so  many  glances  had  been  exchanged  apropos  of 
her  remarks  between  Vyvian  and  Miss  Barnett.  But 
here  was  a  young  man  who  thought  St.  Mark's  was  very 
nice.  "  The  dear  Duomo !  "  Miss  Barnett  murmured, 
protecting  it  from  Tourist  Insolence. 

Mrs.  Johnson  agreed  enthusiastically  with  Peter. 

"  I  call  it  just  sweet.  You  should  see  it  on  a  Sun- 
day, Mr.  Margerison  —  Mr.  Peter,  as  I  should  say, 
shouldn't  I  ?  —  all  the  flags  flying,  and  the  sun  shining 
on  the  gilt  front  an'  all,  and  the  band  playing  in  the 
square;  an'  inside  half  a  dozen  services  all  at  once, 
and  the  incense  floatin'  everywhere.  Not  as  I'm  partial 
to  incense ;  it  makes  me  feel  a  bit  squeamish  —  and 
Miss  Gould  there  tells  me  it  affects  her  similarly,  don't 
it,  Miss  Gould  ?  Incense,  I  say  —  don't  it  give  you 
funny  f eelin's  within  ?  Seem  to  upset  you,  as  it  were  ?  " 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS    79 

Miss  Gould,  disturbed  in  her  intimate  conversation 
with  the  curate,  held  up  mittened  hands  in  deprecating 
horror,  either  at  the  delicacy  of  the  question  called 
across  the  tahle  with  gentlemen  present,  or  at  the  mem- 
ory it  called  up  in  her  of  the  funny  feelings  within. 

Mrs.  Johnson  took  it  as  that,  and  nodded.  "  Just 
like  me,  she  is,  in  that  way.  But  I  like  to  see  the 
worship  goin'  on,  all  the  same.  Popish,  you  know,  of 
course,"  she  added,  and  then,  bethinking  herself,  "  But 
perhaps  you're  a  Eoman,  Mr.  Peter,  like  your  dear 
brother  and  sister?  Well,  Roman  or  no  Roman,  I  al- 
ways say  as  how  Mrs.  Margerison  is  one  of  the  best. 
A  dear,  cheery  soul,  as  has  hardships  to  contend  with; 
and  if  she  finds  the  comforts  of  religion  in  graven 
images  an'  a  bead  necklace,  who  am  I  to  say  her  no  ? " 

"  Peggy,"  said  Hilary  wearily  across  the  table,  "  II- 
luminato  is  making  a  little  beast  of  himself.  Put  him 
out." 

Peggy  scrubbed  Illuminato's  bullet  head  dry  with  her 
handkerchief  (it  had  been  lying  in  his  minestra  bowl), 
slapped  him  lightly  on  the  hands,  and  said  absently, 
"  Don't  worry  poor  Daddy,  who's  so  tired."  She  was 
wishing  that  the  risotto  had  been  boiled  a  little;  one 
gathered  from  the  hardness  of  the  rice  that  that  process 
had  been  omitted.  Vyvian,  who  was  talking  shop  with 
Hilary,  sighed  deeply  and  laid  down  his  fork.  He 
wondered  why  he  ever  came  in  to  lunch.  One  could  get 
a  much  better  one  nearly  as  cheap  at  a  restaurant. 

Miss  Barnett,  with  an  air  of  wishing  to  find  out  how 
bad  a  fool  Peter  was,  leaned  across  Mrs.  Johnson  and 
said,  "  What  are  you  to  Venice,  Mr.  Margerison,  and 
Venice  to  you?  What,  I  mean,  are  you  going  to  get 
out  of  her?  Which  of  her  aspects  do  you  especially 
approach  ?  She  has  so  infinitely  many,  you  know. 
What,  in  fact,  is  your  connecting  link  ?  "  She  waited 


8o  THE  LEE  SHORE 

with  some  interest  for  what  Peter  would  say.  She 
had  not  yet  "  placed  "  him. 

Peter  said,  "  Oh,  well  ...  I  look  at  things,  you 
know  .  .  .  much  the  same  as  anyone  else,  I  expect. 
And  I  go  in  gondolas;  and  then  there  are  the  things 
one  would  like  to  buy." 

Mrs.  Johnson  approved  this.  "  Lovely,  ain't  they ! 
Only  one  never  has  the  money  to  spend." 

"  I  watch  other  people  spending  theirs,"  said  Peter, 
"  which  is  the  next  best  thing,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  I'm 
sorry  I'm  stupid,  Miss  Barnett  —  but  it's  all  so  jolly 
that  I  don't  like  to  be  invidious." 

"  Do  you  write  ?  "  she  enquired. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  admitted.  "  You're  illustrating 
a  book  about  Venice,  aren't  you  ?  That  must  be  awfully 
interesting."  c/  vr  ^<r,  ^-(  <  <  v< 

"  I  am  trying,"  she  said,  "  to  catch  the  most  elusive 
thing  in  the  world  —  the  Spirit  of  Venice.  It  breaks 
my  heart,  the  pursuit.  Just  round  the  corner,  always ; 
you  know  Browning's  '  Love  in  a  Life '  ? 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her, 
Next  time  herself!  — not  the  trouble  behind  her  .  .  . 
Still  the  same  chance !  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest;  — who  cares?  .  .  . 

It's  like  that  with  me  and  my  Venice.  It  hurts  rather 
—  but  I  have  to  go  on." 

"  You  shouldn't,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Johnson  mur- 
mured soothingly.  "  I'm  sure  you  should  be  careful. 
We  mustn't  play  tricks  with  our  constitutions." 

Rhoda  kicked  Peter  under  the  table  in  mistake  for 
her  mother,  and  never  discovered  the  error. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  Miss  Barnett  added  abruptly, 
in  her  cheerful  voice,  "  where  it  hides  ?  " 

Peter  looked  helpful  and  intelligent,  and  endeared 
himself  to  her  thereby.  She  thought  him  a  sympa- 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS     81 

thetic  young  man,  with  possibilities,  probably  unde- 
veloped. 

Vyvian,  who  regarded  Miss  Barnett  and  "  Venice, 
Her  Spirit,"  with  contemptuous  jealousy,  thought  that 
Rhoda  was  paying  them  too  much  attention,  and  ef- 
fectually called  her  away  by  saying,  "  If  you  care  to 
come  with  me  to  the  Schiavoni,  I  can  better  explain  to 
you  what  I  mean." 

Ehoda  kindled  and  flushed  and  looked  suddenly 
pretty.  Peter  heard  a  smothered  sigh  on  his  left. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  Mrs.  Johnson  murmured  to  him. 
"  !N"o,  I  don't.  If  it  was  you,  now,  as  offered  to  take 

her •  But  there,  I  daresay  you  wouldn't  be  clever 

enough  to  suit  Rhoder;  she's  so  partic'lar.  You  and 
me,  now  —  we  get  on  very  well ;  seems  as  if  we  liked 
to  talk  on  the  same  subjects,  as  it  were;  but  Rhoder' s 
different.  When  we  go  about  together,  it's  always, 
i  Mother,  not  so  loud !  Oh,  mother,  you  mustn't ! 
Mother,  that  ain't  really  beautiful  at  all,  and  you're 
givin'  of  us  away.  Mother,  folks  are  listening.'  Let 
'em  listen  is  what  I  say.  They  won't  hear  anything 
that  could  hurt  'em  from  me.  But  Rhoder' s  so  quiet ; 
she  hates  a  bit  of  notice.  Not  that  she  minds  when 
she's  with  Mm;  he  talks  away  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
and  folks  do  turn  an'  listen  —  I've  seen  'em.  But  I 
suppose  that's  clever  talk,  so  Rhoder  don't  mind." 

She  raised  her  voice  from  the  thick  and  cautious 
whisper  which  she  thought  suitable  for  these  remarks, 
and  addressed  Peggy. 

"  Well,  we've  had  a  good  dinner,  my  dear  —  plenty 
of  it,  if  the  rice  was  a  bit  underdone." 

"  A  grain,"  Miss  Gould  was  murmuring  to  the  curate, 

"  a  single  grain  would  have  had  unspeakable  effects. 
?j 

Peggy  was  endeavouring  to  comb  Caterina's  exceed- 


82  THE  LEE  SHORE 

ingly  tangled  locks  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  she  slapped  Silvio's  (Larry's)  bare  and 
muddy  feet  to  make  him  take  them  off  the  table-cloth. 
Kot  that  they  made  much  difference  to  the  condition 
of  the  table-cloth ;  but  still,  there  are  conventions. 

"  It  is  a  disgrace,"  Hilary  remarked  mechanically, 
"  that  my  children  can't  behave  like  civilised  beings  at 
a  meal.  .  .  .  Peter,  what  are  you  going  to  do  this  after- 
noon ? " 

The  boarders  rose.  Mrs.  Johnson  patted  Peter  ap- 
provingly on  the  arm,  and  said,  "  I'm  glad  to  of  had 
the  pleasure.  One  day  we'll  go  out  together,  you  and 
me.  Seem  as  if  we  look  at  things  from  the  same  point 
of  view,  as  it  were.  You.  mayn't  be  so  clever  as  some, 
but  you  suit  me.  !N"ow,  my  dear,  I'm  goin'  to  help  you 
about  the  house  a  bit.  The  saloon  wants  dustin',  I 
noticed." 

Peggy  sighed  and  said  she  was  sure  it  did,  and 
Teresina  was  hopeless,  and  Mrs.  Johnson  was  really  too 
kind,  but  it  was  a  shame  to  bother  her,  and  the  saloon 
could  go  another  while  yet.  She  was  struggling  with 
the  children's  bibs  and  rather  preoccupied. 

The  boarders  went  out  to  pursue  their  several  avoca- 
tions; Ehoda  and  Mr.  Vyvian  to  the  church  of  San 
Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  that  Mr.  Vyvian  might  the  bet- 
ter explain  what  he  meant;  Miss  Barnett,  round-about 
and  cheerful,  sketch-book  in  hand,  to  hunt  for  "  Venice, 
Her  Spirit,"  in  the  Pescaria;  Miss  Gould  to  lie  down 
on  her  bed  and  recover  from  lunch ;  the  curate  to  take 
the  air  and  photographs  for  his  magic-lantern  lectures 
to  be  delivered  in  the  parish-room  at  home;  and  Mrs. 
Johnson  to  find  a  feather  broom. 

Hilary  sat  down  and  lit  a  cigar,  and  Illuminato 
crawled  about  his  legs. 

"  I'm  going  out  with  Leslie,"  said  Peter.     "  We're 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS     83 

going  to  call  on  the  prince  and  see  the  goblet  and  be- 
gin the  haggling.  We  must  haggle,  though  as  a  matter 
of  fact  Leslie  means  to  have  it  at  any  price.  It  must 
be  a  perfectly  ripping  thing.  .  .  .  Now  let  me  have  a 
number  of  '  The  Gem '  to  read.  I've  not  seen  it  yet, 
you  know." 

"  It's  very  dull,  my  dear,"  Peggy  murmured,  rinsing 
water  over  the  place  on  the  table-cloth  where  Silvio's 
feet  had  been. 

Hilary  was  gazing  into  the  frog-like  countenance 
of  his  youngest  son.  It  gave  him  a  disappointment 
ever  new,  that  Illuminate  should  be  so  plain.  "  But 
your  mother's  handsome,  frog,"  he  murmured,  "  and 
I'm  not  worse  than  my  neighbours  to  look  at."  (But  he 
knew  he  was  better  than  most  of  them).  "  Let's  hope 
you  have  intellect  to  make  up.  Now  crawl  to  your 
uncle  Peter,  since  you  want  to." 

Illuminate  did  want  to.     He  adored  his  uncle  Peter. 

"The  Gem,  Peter?"  said  Hilary.  "Bother  the 
Gem.  As  Peggy  remarks,  it's  very  dull,  and  you  won't 
like  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  want  you  to  read  it,  to  say 
the  truth." 

Peter  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so.  He  had  found  three 
torn  pages  of  it  on  the  floor.  He  was  reading  an  article 
called  "  Osele."  Hilary  glanced  at  it,  with  the  slight 
nervous  frown  frequent  with  him. 

"  What  have  you  got  hold  of  ?  ...  Oh,  that."  His 
frown  seemed  to  relax  a  little.  "  I  really  don't  recom- 
mend the  thing  for  your  entertainment,  Peter.  It'll 
bore  you.  I  have  to  provide  two  things  —  food  for  the 
interested  visitor,  and  guidance  for  Lord  Evelyn's 
mania  for  purchasing." 

"  So  I  am  gathering,"  Peter  said.  "  I'm  reading 
about  osele,  marked  with  the  Mocenigo  rose.  Signer 
Antonio  Sardi  seems  to  be  a  man  worth  a  visit.  I  must 


84  THE  LEE  SHORE 

take  Leslie  there.  That's  just  the  sort  of  thing  he 
likes.  And  sixteenth-century  visiting  cards.  Yes, 
he'd  like  those  too.  By  all  means  we'll  go  to  your 
friend  Sardi.  You  wrote  this,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Hilary  nodded.  His  white  nervous  fingers  played  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair.  It  seemed  to  be  something  of  an 
ordeal  to  him,  this  first  introduction  of  Peter  to  the 
Gem. 

Peggy,  assisting  Teresina  to  bundle  the  crockery  off 
the  table,  shot  a  swift  glance  at  the  group  —  at  Hilary 
lying  back  smoking,  with  slightly  knitted  forehead,  one 
unsteady  hand  playing  on  his  chair;  at  Peter  sitting 
on  the  marble  floor  with  the  torn  fragments  of  paper  in 
his  hands  and  Illuminate  astride  on  his  knee.  Peggy's 
grey,  Irish  eyes  were  at  the  moment  a  little  speculative, 
touched  with  a  dispassionate  curiosity  and  a  good  deal 
of  sisterly  and  wifely  and  maternal  and  slightly  com- 
passionate affection.  She  was  so  fond  of  them  all,  the 
dear  babes. 

Peter  had  gone  on  from  osele  to  ivory  plaques.  He 
was  not  quite  so  much  interested  in  reading  about  them 
because  he  knew  more  about  them  for  himself,  but  he 
took  down  the  name  of  a  dealer  who  had,  according  to 
the  Gem,  some  good  specimens,  and  said  he  should  take 
Leslie  there  too. 

Hilary  got  up  rather  suddenly,  and  jerked  his  cigar 
away  into  a  corner  (marble  floors  are  useful  in  some 
ways)  and  said,  "  Is  Leslie  going  to  buy  the  whole  place 
up  ?  I'm  sick  of  these  wealthy  Jews.  They're  ruining 
Venice.  Buying  all  the  palaces,  you  know.  I  suppose 
Leslie'll  be  wanting  to  do  that  next.  There's  altogether 
too  much  buying  in  this  forsaken  world.  Why  can't 
people  admire  without  wanting  to  acquire?  Lord 
Evelyn  can't.  The  squandering  old  fool;  he's  ruining 
himself  over  things  he's  too  blind  even  to  look  at 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS    85 

properly.     And  this  Leslie  of  yours,  who  can't  even  ap- 
preciate, still  must  get  and  have,  of  course;  and  the 
more  he  gets  the  more  he  wants.     Can't  you  stop  him, 
Peter?     It's  such  a  monstrous  exhibition  of  the  vice  of' 
the  age." 

"  It's  not  my  profession  to  stop  him,"  Peter  said. 
"  And,  after  all,  why  shouldn't  they  ?     If  it  makes  them 

happy  —  well "     His  finality  conveyed  his  creed; 

if  it  makes  them  happy,  what  else  is  there?  To  be 
happy  is  to  have  reached  the  goal.  Peter  was  a  little 
sad  about  Hilary,  who  seemed  as  far  as  ever  from  that 
goal.  Why?  Peter  wondered.  Couldn't  one  be 
happy  in  this  lovable  water-city,  which  had,  after  all, 
green  ways  of  shadow  and  gloom  between  the  peeling 
brick  walls  of  ancient  houses,  and,  beyond,  the  broad 
spaces  of  the  sea  ?  Couldn't  one  be  happy  here  even  if 
the  babies  did  poise  muddy  feet  on  a  table-cloth,  not, 
after  all,  otherwise  clean ;  and  even  if  the  poor  boarders 
wouldn't  pay  their  rent  and  the  rich  Jews  would  buy 
palaces  and  plaques  ?  Bother  the  vice  of  the  age, 
thought  Peter,  as  he  crossed  the  sun-bathed  piazza  and 
suddenly  smelt  the  sea.  There  surely  never  was  such  a 
jolly  world  made  as  this,  which  had  Venice  in  it  for 
laughter  and  breathless  wonder  and  delight,  and  her 
Duomo  shining  like  a  jewel. 

"  An'  the  sun  shinin'  on  the  gilt  front  an'  all,"  mur- 
mured Peter.  "  I  call  it  just  sweet." 

He  went  in  (he  was  to  meet  Leslie  there),  and  the 
soft  dusk  rippled  about  him,  and  beyond  the  great  pil- 
lars stretched  the  limitless,  hazy  horizons  of  a  dream. 

Presently  Leslie  came.  He  had  an  open  "  Stones  of 
Venice "  in  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Now  for  those 
mosaics."  Leslie  was  a  business-like  person,  who 
wasted  no  time.  So  they  started  on  the  mosaics,  and 
did  them  for  an  hour.  Leslie  said,  "  Good.  Capital," 


86  THE  LEE  SHORE 

with  the  sober,  painstaking,  conscientious  appreciation 
he  was  wont  to  bestow  on  unpurchasable  excellence ;  and 
Peter  said,  "  How  jolly,"  and  felt  glad  that  there  were 
gome  excellences  unpurchasable  even  by  rich  Jews. 

They  then  went  to  the  Accademia  and  looked  at  pic- 
tures. There  Leslie  had  a  clue  to  merit.  "  Anything 
on  hinges,  I  presume,"  he  remarked,  "  is  worth  inspec- 
tion. Only  why  don't  they  hinge  more  of  the  good  ones  ? 
They  ought  to  give  us  a  hint ;  they  really  ought.  How's 
a  man  to  be  sure  he's  on  the  right  tack  ?  " 

After  an  hour  of  that  they  went  to  see  the  prince  who 
had  the  goblet.  Half  an  hour's  conversation  with  him, 
and  the  goblet  belonged  to  Leslie.  It  was  a  glorious 
thing  of  deep  blue  glass  and  translucent  enamel  and 
silver,  with  the  Berovieri  signature  cut  on  it.  Peter 
looked  at  it  much  as  he  had  seen  a  woman  in  the  Duomo 
look  up  at  her  Lady's  shrine,  much  as  Rodney  had 
looked  on  the  illumined  reality  behind  the  dreaming 
silver  world. 

Peter  said,  "  My  word,  suppose  it  broke !  "  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  think  of  that;  things  so  often 
broke.  Only  that  morning  his  gold  watch  had  broken, 
in  Illuminato's  active  hands.  Only  that  afternoon  his 
bootlace  had  broken,  and  he  had  had  none  to  replace  it 
because  Caterina  had  been  sailing  his  other  boots  in  the 
canal.  Peter  sighed  over  the  lovely  and  brittle  world. 

Then  he  and  Leslie  visited  Signor  Sardi's  shop  and 
looked  at  osele  and  sixteenth-century  visiting  cards. 
Peter  said  he  knew  nothing  about  either  personally, 
but  quoted  Hilary  in  the  Gem,  to  Leslie's  satisfaction. 

"  Your  brother's  a  good  man,"  said  Leslie.  "  Knows 
what's  what,  doesn't  he?  If  he  says  these  are  good 
osele,  we  may  take  it  that  they  are  good  osele,  though 
we  don't  know  one  osele  from  another.  That's  right, 
isn't  it?" 


HILARY,  PEGGY,  AND  BOARDERS    87 

Peter  said  he  supposed  it  was,  if  one  wanted  osele 
at  all,  which  personally  he  didn't  care  about;  but  one 
never  knew,  of  course,  what  might  come  in  useful. 
Anyhow  Leslie  bought  some,  and  a  visiting  card  be- 
longing to  the  Count  Amadeo  Vasari,  which  gave  him 
much  satisfaction.  Then  they  visited  the  person  who, 
the  Gem  had  said,  had  good  plaques,  and  inspected 
them  critically.  Then  they  had  tea  at  Sant'  Ortes'  tea- 
room, and  then  Peter  went  home. 

Hilary,  who  was  looking  worried,  said,  "  Lord 
Evelyn  wants  us  to  dine  with  him  to-night,"  and  passed 
Peter  a  note  in  delicate,  shaky  handwriting. 

"  Good/'  said  Peter.  Hilary  wore  a  bored  look  and 
said,  "  I  suppose  we  must  go,"  and  then  proceeded  to 
question  Peter  concerning  Leslie's  shopping  adventures. 
He  seemed  on  the  whole  more  interested  in  the  pur- 
chase of  osele  than  of  the  Berovieri  goblet. 

"  But,"  said  Peter  presently,  "  your  plaque  friend 
wasn't  in  form  to-day.  He  had  only  shams.  Eather 

bright  shams,  but  still So  we  didn't  get  any, 

which,  I  suppose,  will  please  you  to  hear.  Leslie  was 
disappointed.  I  told  your  friend  we  would  look  in 
on  a  better  day,  when  he  had  some  of  the  real  thing. 
He  wasn't  pleased.  I  expect  he  passes  off  numbers 
of  those  things  on  people  as  antiques.  You  ought  to 
qualify  your  remarks  in  the  Gem,  Hilary  —  add  that 
Signer  Leroni  has  to  be  cautiously  dealt  with  —  or 
you'll  be  letting  the  uncritical  plaque-buyer  through 
rather  badly." 

"  I  daresay  they  can  look  after  themselves,"  Hilary 
said,  easily;  and  Peggy  added: 

"  After  all,  so  long  as  they  are  uncritical,  it  can't 
matter  to  them  what  sort  of  a  plaque  they  get !  "  which 
of  course,  was  one  point  of  view. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DIANA,    ACTION,    AND    LOUD    EVELYN 

HILARY  and  Peter  gondoled  to  Lord  Evelyn  Urqu- 
hart's  residence,  a  rather  exquisite  little  old  palace 
called  Ca'  delle  Gemme,  and  were  received  affection- 
ately by  the  tall,  slim,  dandified-looking  young-old  man, 
with  his  white  ringed  hands  and  high  sweet  voice  and 
courtly  manner.  He  had  aged  since  Peter  remem- 
bered him;  the  slim  hands  were  shakier  and  the  near- 
sighted eyes  weaker  and  the  delicate  face  more  deeply 
lined  with  the  premature  lines  of  dissipation  and  weak 
health.  He  put  his  monocle  in  his  left  eye  and  smiled 
at  Peter,  with  the  old  charming  smile  that  was  like 
his  nephew's,  and  tilted  to  and  fro  on  his  heels. 

"  Not  changed  at  all,  as  far  as  I  can  see,"  he  said  to 
Peter,  with  the  same  mincing,  finicking  pronunciation 
that  had  pleased  the  boy  Peter  eight  years  ago.  "  Only 
my  sight  isn't  what  it  was.  Are  you  changed  at  all  ? 
Do  you  still  like  Bow  rose-bowls  better  than  anything 
except  Denis  ?  Denis  is  coming  here  soon,  you  know, 
so  I  shall  be  able  to  discover.  Oh,  I  beg  pardon  — 
Mr.  Peter  Margerison,  Mr.  Cheriton." 

Mr.  Cheriton  was  a  dark,  sturdy  young  man  with 
an  aggressive  jaw,  who  bowed  without  a  smile  and 
looked  one  rather  hard  in  the  face.  Peter  was  a  little 
frightened  of  him  —  these  curt,  brisk  manners  made 
him  nervous  always  —  and  felt  a  desire  to  edge  behind 
Hilary.  He  gathered  that  Hilary  and  Cheriton  did 
not  very  much  like  ane  another.  He  knew  what  that 
slight  nervous  contraction  of  Hilary's  forehead  meant. 

Dinner  was  interesting.     Lord  Evelyn  told  pleasant 

88 


DIANA  AND  LORD  .EVELYN          89 

and  funny  stories  in  his  high,  tittering  voice,  address- 
ing himself  to  all  his  guests,  but  looking  at  Peter 
when  he  came  to  his  points.  (People  usually  looked 
at  Peter  when  they  came  to  the  points  of  their 
stories.)  Hilary  talked  a  good  deal  and  drank  a  good 
deal  and  ate  very  little,  and  was  obviously  on  very 
friendly  terms  with  Lord  Evelyn  and  on  no  terms  at 
all  with  Mr.  Cheriton.  Cheriton  looked  a  good  deal  at 
Peter,  with  very  bright  and  direct  eyes,  and  flung  into 
the  conversation  rather  curt  and  spasmodic  utterances 
in  a  slightly  American  accent.  He  seemed  a  very  de- 
cided and  very  much  alive  young  man,  a  little  rude, 
thought  Peter,  but  possibly  that  was  only  his  trans- 
Atlantic  way,  if,  as  his  voice  hinted,  he  came  from 
America.  Once  or  twice  Peter  met  the  direct  and  vivid 
regard  fixed  upon  him,  and  nearly  was  startled  into 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  for  there  seemed  to  him  an  odd 
element  of  accusation  in  the  look. 

"  But  it  isn't  my  fault,"  he  told  himself  reassuringly. 
"  I've  not  done  anything,  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  It's  just 
the  way  he's  made,  I  expect.  Or  else  people  have 
done  him  badly  once  or  twice,  and  he's  always  think- 
ing it's  going  to  happen  again.  Rough  luck  on  him; 
poor  chap." 

After  dinner  they  went  into  what  Lord  Evelyn  called 
the  saloon.  "  Where  I  keep  my  especial  treasures," 
he  remarked  to  Peter.  "  You'd  like  to  walk  round  and 
look  at  some  of  them,  I  expect.  These  bronzes,  now 

,"  he  indicated  two  statuettes  on  brackets  by  the 

door. 

Peter  looked  at  them,  then  swiftly  up  at  Lord  Evelyn, 
who  swayed  at  his  side,  his  glass  screwed  into  one 
smiling  eye. 

Lord  Evelyn  touched  the  near  statuette  with  his 
light,  unsteady,  beautifully-ringed  hand. 


90  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Rather  lovely,  isn't  she,"  he  said,  caressing  her. 
"  We  found  her  and  the  Actseon  in  a  dusty  hole  of  a 
place  in  a  miserable  little  calle  off  the  Campo  delle 
Beccarie,  kept  by  a  German  Jew.  Quite  a  find,  the 
old  sinner.  What  an  extortioner,  though!  Eh,  Mar- 
gerison?  How  much  has  the  old  Schneller  got  out  of 
my  pocket?  It  was  your  brother  who  discovered  him 
for  me,  young  Peter.  He  took  me  there,  and  we  found 
the  Diana  together.  Like  her?  Giacomo  Treviso,  a 
pupil  of  Verrocchio's.  Heard  of  him  ?  The  Action's 
not  so  good  now.  Same  man,  but  not  so  happy." 

He  turned  the  Diana  about ;  he  posed  her  for  Peter's 
edification.  Peter  looked  from  her  to  the  Acta&on, 
from  the  Actoeon  to  Lord  Evelyn's  face.  He  opened 
his  lips  to  say  something,  and  closed  them  on  silence. 
He  looked  past  Lord  Evelyn  to  Hilary,  who  stood  in 
the  background,  leaning  a  little  against  a  chair.  It 
seemed  to  Peter  that  there  was  a  certain  tensity,  a 
strain,  in  his  face. 

Then  Peter  met  full  the  bright,  hard,  vivid  gaze  of 
the  alert  Cheriton.  It  had  an  odd  expression  at  this 
moment;  unmistakably  inimical,  observantly  curi- 
ous, distinctly  sardonic.  A  faint  ironic  smile  just 
touched  the  corners  of  his  determined  mouth.  Peter 
returned  the  look  with  his  puzzled,  enquiring  eyes  that 
sought  to  understand. 

This  much,  anyhow,  he  seemed  to  understand:  his 
role  was  silence.  If  Cheriton  didn't  speak  (and  Cheri- 
ton's  expression  showed  that  he  knew)  and  if  Hilary 
didn't  speak  .  .  .  well,  he,  Peter,  couldn't  speak  either. 
He  must  acquiesce  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  conspiracy 
to  keep  this  pathetic,  worn-out  dilettante  in  a  fool's 
paradise. 

The  pathos  of  it  gripped  Peter's  heart.  Lord 
Evelyn  had  once  known  so  well.  What  havoc  was  this 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN          91 

that  one  could  apparently  make  of  one's  faculties? 
It  wasn't  only  physical  semi-blindness;  it  was  a 
blindness  of  the  mind,  a  paralysis  of  the  powers  of 
discrimination  and  appreciation,  which  was  pitiful. 
Peter  was  angry.  He  thought  Hilary  and  Cheriton 
so  abominably,  unmitigatedly  wrong.  And-  yet'  he 
himself  had  said,  "  If  it  makes  them  happy  " —  and 
left  that  as  the  indubitable  end.  Ah,  but  one  didn't 
lie  to  people,  even  for  that. 

Peter  was  brought  up  sharply,  as  he  had  often 
been  before,  against  Hilary's  strange  Hilaryish,  per- 
verted views  of  the  conduct  of  life's  businesses.  Then, 
as  usual  when  he  should  have  felt  furthest  from 
mirth,  he  abruptly  collapsed  into  sudden  helpless 
laughter. 

Lord  Evelyn  turned  the  eyeglass  on  him. 

"  Eh  ?  "  he  queried.  "  Why  so  ?  But  never  mind ; 
you  always  suffered  in  that  way,  I  remember.  Get  it 
from  your  mother,  I  think;  she  did,  too.  Never  ex- 
plain jokes;  they  lose  so  in  the  telling.  Now  I  want 
to  show  you  something  over  here." 

Peter  crossed  the  room,  his  laughter  dead.  After 
all,  funny  wasn't  what  it  really  was.  Mainly,  it  was 
perplexing.  Till  he  could  have  it  out  with  Hilary,  he 
couldn't  understand  it  at  all. 

He  saw  more  of  Lord  Evelyn's  treasures,  and  per- 
plexity grew.  He  did  not  laugh  again;  he  was  very 
solemn  and  very  silent  and  very  polite  where  he  could 
not  admire.  Where  he  could  he  did;  but  even  here 
his  admiration  was  weighed  down  to  soberness  by  the 
burden  of  the  things  beyond  the  pale. 

Lord  Evelyn  found  him  lukewarm,  changed  and 
dulled  from  the  vivid  devotee  of  old,  who  had  coloured 
up  all  over  his  pale  face  at  the  sight  of  a  Bow  rose- 
bowl.  He  coloured  indeed  now,  when  Lord  Evelyn 


92  THE  LEE  SHORE 

said  "  Like  it  ?  " —  coloured  and  murmured  indistin- 
guishable comments  into  his  collar.  He  coloured  most 
when  Lord  Evelyn  said,  as  he  frequently  did,  "  Your 
brother's  find.  A  delicious  little  man  in  some  sotto- 
portico  or  other  —  quite  an  admirable  person.  Eh, 
Margerison  ? " 

Hilary  in  the  background  would  vaguely  assent. 
Peter,  who  looked  at  him  no  more,  felt  the  indefinable 
challenge  of  his  tone.  It  meant  either,  "  I've  as  much 
right  to  my  artistic  taste  as  you  have,  Peter,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  it,"  or,  "  Speak  out,  if  you  want  to 
shatter  the  illusions  that  make  the  happiness  of  his 
ridiculous  life;  if  not,  be  silent." 

And  all  the  time  the  vivid  stare  of  Jim  Cheriton 
was  turned  like  a  search-light  on  Peter's  face,  and  his 
odd  smile  grew  and  grew.  Cheriton  was  watching, 
observing,  taking  in  something  new,  trying  to  solve 
some  problem. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Lord  Evelyn  said,  "  Peter 
Margerison,  you've  lost  some  of  the  religious  fervour 
of  your  youth.  The  deceitfulness  of  riches  and  the 
cares  of  this  world  —  is  that  it  ?  What's  come  to  you 
that  you're  so  tepid  about  this  Siena  chalice  ?  Don't  be 
tepid,  young  Peter;  it's  the'  symptom  of  ai  ruined 
soul."  ' 

He  polished  his  glass,  screwed  it  into  his  left  eye, 
and  looked  down  on  Peter  with  his  whimsical,  kindly 
scrutiny.  Peter  did  not  return  the  look;  he  stood  with 
bent  head,  looking  vaguely  down  at  the  Sienese  chalice. 
That  too  was  one  of  Hilary's  finds.  Hilary  it  seemed, 
had  approved  its  seller  in  an  article  in  the  Gem. 

"  Damme,"  said  Lord  Evelyn  suddenly,  with  unusual 
explosiveness,  "  if  I  didn't  like  you  better  when  you 
were  fifteen!  Now,  you  blase  and  soulless  generation, 
I  suppose  you  want  to  play  bridge.  Do  you  play  as 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN          93 

badly  as  ever,  Peter?  A  remarkable  player  you  were, 
I  remember  —  quite  remarkable.  Denis  always  told 
you  so.  Now  Cheriton  will  tell  you  so,  because  he's 
rude." 

Bridge  was  a  relief  to  Peter,  though  he  was  still  a 
rather  remarkable  player.  He  played  with  Cheriton, 
who  was  not  rude,  because  he  was  absolutely  silent.  It 
was  an  absurd  game.  Cheriton  was  a  brilliant  player, 
even  when  he  was  only  giving  half  his  mind  to  it,  as 
he  seemingly  was  to-night.  Lord  Evelyn  had  been  a 
brilliant  player  once,  and  was  now  brilliant  with  alterna- 
tions of  eccentricity;  he  talked  most  of  the  time,  mak- 
ing the  game  the  centre  of  his  remarks,  from  which  he 
struck  out  along  innumerable  paths  of  irrelevancy. 
The  Margerisons  too  were  irrelevant ;  Hilary  thought 
bridge  a  bore,  and  Peter,  who  thought  nothing  a  bore, 
was  always  a  little  alarmed  by  anything  so  grown-up. 
But  to-night  he  didn't  much  mind  what  he  did,  so  long 
as  he  stopped  looking  at  Lord  Evelyn's  things.  Peter 
only  wanted  to  get  away;  he  was  ashamed  and  per- 
plexed and  sorry  and  angry,  and  stabbed  through  with 
pity.  He  wanted  to  get  out  of  Lord  Evelyn's  house, 
out  of  the  range  of  his  kindly,  whimsical  smile  and 
Cheriton's  curious  hostile  stare;  he  wanted  to  be  alone 
with  Hilary,  and  to  understand. 

The  irony  of  Cheriton's  look  increased  during  bridge ; 
it  was  certainly  justified  by  the  abstraction  of  Peter's 
play. 

Lord  Evelyn  laughed  at  him.  "  You  need  Denis  to 
keep  you  in  order,  young  Peter.  Lord,  how  frightened 
you  used  to  be  when  Denis  was  stern.  Smiled  and  pre- 
tended you  weren't,  but  I  knew.  .  .  ."  He  chuckled 
at  the  painted  ceiling.  "  Knew  a  man  at  Oxford, 
Peter  .  .  .  well,  never  mind  that  story  now,  you're  too 
young  for  it.  ...  Anyhow  I  make  it  no  trumps." 


94  THE  LEE  SHORE 

At  eleven  o'clock  Hilary  and  Peter  went  home. 
Lord  Evelyn  shook  hands  with  Peter  rather  affection- 
ately, and  said,  "  Come  and  see  me  again  soon,  dear 
boy.  Lunch  with  me  at  Florian's  to-morrow  —  you 
and  your  wealthy  friend.  Busy  sight-seeing,  are  you  ? 
How  banal  of  you.  Morning  in  the  Duomo,  afternoon 
on  the  Lido,  and  the  Accademia  to  fill  the  spare  hours ; 
I  know  the  dear  old  round.  Never  could  be  worried 
with  it  myself;  too  much  else  to  do.  But  one  manages 
to  enjoy  life  even  without  it,  so  don't  overwork.  And 
come  and  see  my  toys  again  by  daylight,  and  try  to 
enthuse  a  Jittle  more  over  them  next  time.  You're  too 
young  to  be  blase.  You'd  better  read  the  Gem,  to  en- 
courage yourself  in  simple  pleasures.  Good-night. 
Good-night,  Margerison." 

He  shook  hands  with  them  both  again,  possibly  to 
make  up  for  Cheriton,  who  did  not  shake  hands  at  all, 
but  stood  with  his  own  in  his  pockets,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  his  eyes  still  on  Peter's  face. 

"  Queer  manners  you  have,  dear  Jim,"  was  what 
they  heard  Lord  Evelyn  say  as  they  stepped  into  the 
Ca'  delle  Gemme  gondola,  that  was  taking  them  back 
to  the  Rio  delle  Beccarie. 

They  swung  out  into  the  faintly-shining  darkness 
of  the  water-road,  into  which  the  climbing  moon  could 
not  look  —  a  darkness  crossed  and  flecked  by  the  red 
gleamings  of  the  few  gondola  and  sandolo  lights  abroad 
at  this  hour  in  the  quiet  street.  They  sent  their  own 
red  path  before  them  as  they  softly  travelled ;  and  round 
it  the  stars  flickered  and  swain,  deep  down.  Peter 
could  have  sworn  he  heard  their  thin,  tinkling,  sub- 
merged, funny  song,  somewhere  above  or  beneath  the 
soft  and  melodious  "  Cherie  Birri-Bim,"  that  someone 
(not  Lord  Evelyn's  beautifully  trained  and  tactiturn 
poppe)  was  crooning  near  at  hand. 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN          95 

The  velvet  darkness  of  a  bridge  drowned  the  stars 
for  a  moment;  then,  with  a  musical,  abrupt  cry  of 
"  Sta — i !  "  they  swung  round  a  corner  into  a  narrow 
way  that  was  silver  and  green  in  the  face  of  the  climb- 
ing moon. 

The  musically  lovely  night,  the  peace  of  the  dim 
water-ways,  the  shadowing  mystery  of  the  steep,  shut- 
tered houses,  with  here  and  there  a  lit  door  or  window 
ajar,  sending  a  slant  of  yellow  light  across  the  deep 
green  lane  full  of  stars  and  the  moon,  the  faint  croon- 
ing of  music  far  off,  made  a  cool  marvel  of  peace  for 
strung  nerves.  Peter  sat  by  Hilary  in  silence,  and 
no  longer  wanted  to  ask  questions.  In  the  strange,  en- 
veloping wonder  of  the  night,  minor  wonders  died. 
What  did  it  matter,  anyhow?  Hilary  and  Venice  — 
Venice  and  Hilary  —  give  them  time,  and  one  would 
explain  the  other. 

It  was  Hilary  who  began  to  talk,  and  he  talked 
about  Cheriton,  his  nervous  voice  pitched  on  a  high 
note  of  complaint. 

"  I  do  intensely  dislike  that  man.  The  sort  of  per- 
son I've  no  use  for,  you  know.  So  horribly  on  the 
spot;  such  sharp,  unsoftened  manners.  All  the  ter' 
rible  bright  braininess  of  the  Yankee  combined  with  the 
obstreperous  energy  of  the  Philistine  Briton.  His 
mother  is  a  young  American,  about  to  be  married  for 
the  third  time.  The  sort  of  exciting  career  one  would 
expect  from  a  parent  of  the  delightful  Jim.  I  cannot 
imagine  why  Lord  Evelyn,  who  is  a  person  of  refine- 
ment, encourages  him.  Really,  you  know !  " 

He  grew  very  plaintive  over  it.  Peter  really  did 
not  wonder. 

Peter's  subconscious  mind  registered  a  dim  impres- 
sion that  this  was  defensive  talk,  to  fill  the  silence. 
Hilary  was  a  nervous  person,  easily  agitated.  Prob- 


96  THE  LEE  SHORE 

ably  the  evening  had  agitated  him.  But  he  was  no 
good  at  defence.  His  complaint  of  Jim  Cheriton  broke 
weakly  on  an  unsteady  laugh.  Peter  nodded  assent, 
and  looked  up  the  street  of  dim  water,  his  chin  propped 
in  his  hands,  and  thought  how  extraordinarily  pleasant 
was  the  red  light  that  slanted  across  the  dark  water 
from  green  doors  ajar  in  steep  house-walls. 

Hilary  tried  to  light  a  cigar,  and  flung  broken 
matches  into  spluttering  darkness.  At  last  he  suc- 
ceeded ;  and  then,  when  he  had  smoked  in  silence  for 
two  minutes,  he  turned  abruptly  on  Peter  and  said, 
"Well?" 

Peter,  dreamily  turning  towards  him,  felt  the  nerv- 
ous challenge  of  his  tone,  and  read  it  in  his  pale,  tired 
face. 

Peter  pulled  himself  together  and  collected  his 
thoughts.  After  all,  one  might  as  well  know. 

"  Oh,  well  ...  what  ?  Yes,  what  about  those 
ghastly  statuettes,  and  all  the  rest  of  them  ?  Why, 
when,  how  .  .  .  and  what  on  earth  for  ?  " 

Hilary,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  said,  with  a  rather 
elaborate  carelessness,  "  I  saw  you  didn't  like  them." 

At  that  Peter  started  a  little,  and  the  dreaminess  of 
the  night  fell  away  from  him. 

"  You  saw  .  .  .  oh."  For  a  moment  he  couldn't 
think  of  anything  else  to  say.  Then  he  laughed  a 
little.  "Why,  yes,  I  imagine  you  did.  .  .  .  But 
what's  the  object  of  it  all?  Have  you  and  Cheriton 
(by  the  way,  why  does  he  glare  at  us  both  so?)  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it's  worth  while  playing  that 
sort  of  game?  If  you  have,  I  can't  tell  you  how 
utterly  wrong  I  think  you  are.  Make  him  happy  — 
oh,  I  know  —  but  what  extraordinary  cheek  on  your 
part !  I  as  near  as  possible  gave  you  away  —  I  did 
really.  Besides,  what  did  he  mean  by  saying  you'd 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN          97 

advised  him  to  buy  the  things  —  praised  them  in  the 
Gem,  and  all  that  ?  You  can't  have  gone  so  far  as  that 
—  did  you  ?  " 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  Hilary  turned  abruptly 
and  looked  Peter  in  the  face,  taking  the  long  cigar  out 
of  his  mouth  and  holding  it  between  two  white,  nervous 
fingers. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Hilary,  speaking  rather 
slowly,  "  Talk  of  cheek !  Do  you  know  what  you're 
accusing  me  of  ?  You  and  your  precious  taste !  Leslie 
and  your  other  fool  patrons  seem  to  have  given  you  a 
fair  opinion  of  yourself.  Because  you,  in  your  om- 
niscience, think  a  thing  bad,  which  I  ...  which  I 
obviously  consider  good,  and  have  stated  so  in  print 
.  .  .  you  don't  so  much  as  deign  to  argue  the  ques- 
tion, but  get  upon  your  pedestal  and  ask  me  why  I  tell 
lies.  You  think  one  thing  and  I  think  another;  of 
course,  you  must  know  best,  but  I  presume  I  may  be 
allowed  to  hold  my  misguided  and  ill-informed  opinion 
without  being  accused  blankly  of  fraud.  Upon  my 
word,  Peter  .  .  .  it's  time  you  took  to  some  other  line 
of  life,  I  think." 

His  high,  unsteady  voice  trailed  away  into  silence. 
Peter,  out  of  all  the  dim  beauty  of  the  night,  saw 
only  the  pale,  disturbed,  frowning  face,  the  quivering 
hand  that  held  the  lean  cigar.  All  the  strangeness 
and  the  mystery  of  the  mysterious  world  were  here  con- 
centrated. Numbly  and  dully  he  heard  the  soft, 
rhythmic  splashing  of  the  dipping  oar,  the  turning 
cry  of  "  Premie !  "  Then,  sharper,  "  Sciar,  Signori, 
sciar !  "  as  they  nearly  jostled  another  gondola,  swing- 
ing ,  round  sharply  into  a  moonless  lane  of  ancient 
palaces. 

Peter  presently  said,  "  But  .  .  ."  and  there  stopped. 
What  could  he  say,  beyond  "  but  ?  " 


98  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Hilary  answered  him  sharply,  "  Well  ? "  and  then, 
after  another  pause,  Peter  pulled  himself  together,  gave 
up  trying  to  thread  the  maze  of  his  perplexity,  and  said 
soberly,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hilary.  I'm  an  ass." 

Hilary  let  out  his  breath  sharply,  and  resumed  his 
cigar. 

"  It's  possible,  of  course,"  he  said,  more  quietly, 
"  that  you  may  be  right  and  I  wrong  about  the  things. 
That's  another  question  altogether.  I  may  be  a  fool: 
I  only  resent  being  called  a  knave.  'Really,  you  know !  " 

"  I  never  meant  that,"  Peter  hopelessly  began  to 
explain.  And,  indeed,  now  that  Hilary  disclaimed  it, 
it  did  seem  a  far  too  abominable  thing  that  he  had 
implied.  He  had  hurt  Hilary;  he  deserved  to  be 
kicked.  His  anger  with  himself  rose.  To  hurt  anyone 
was  atrocious ;  to  hurt  Hilary  unforgivable.  He  would 
have  done  a  great  deal  now  to  make  amends. 

He  stammered  over  it.  "  I  did  think,  I'm  afraid, 
that  you  and  Cheriton  were  doing  it  to  make  him  happy 
or  something.  I'm  awfully  sorry;  I  was  an  ass;  I 
ought  to  have  known.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  that 
you  didn't  kn —  that  you  had  a  different  opinion  of  the 
things.  I  say,  Hilary  —  Cheriton  knows !  I  saw  him 
know.  He  knew,  and  he  was  wondering  what  I  was 
going  to  say." 

"  Knew,  knew,  knew !  "  Hilary  nervously  exploded. 
"  There  you  go  again.  You're  intolerable,  Peter, 
really.  All  the  spoiling  you've  had  has  gone  to  your 
head." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Peter  again.  "  I  meant, 
Cheriton  agreed  with  me,  I'm  sure.  .  .  .  But,  Hilary 
—  those  statuettes  —  you  can't  really.  .  .  .  They're 
mid- Victorian,  and  positively  offensive !  "  His  voice 
rose  shrilly.  They  had  been  so  horrible,  Diana  and 
Actseon.  He  couldn't  forget  them,  in  their  podgy 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN          99 

sentimentality.     "  And  —  and    that    chalice  .  .  ."    he 
shuddered  over  it  — "  and " 

"  That'll  do,  thanks,"  Hilary  broke  in.  "  You  can 
say  at  once  that  you  disagree  with  me  about  every- 
thing I  admire,  and  leave  it  there.  But,  if  I  may  ask 
you,  don't  say  so  to  Lord  Evelyn,  if  you  can  resist  the 
temptation  to  show  me  up  before  him.  It  will  only 
bother  and  disturb  him,  whichever  of  us  he  ends  by 
agreeing  with.  He's  shown  that  he  trusts  my  taste 
more  or  less,  by  giving  me  his  paper  to  edit,  and  I 
should  think  we  might  leave  it  at  that." 

"  Yes,  the  paper  " —  Peter  was  reminded  of  it,  and 
it  became  a  distracting  puzzle.  Hilary  thought  Diana 
and  Actseon  and  the  Siena  chalice  good  things  —  and 
Hilary  edited  an  art  paper.  What  in  the  name  of  all 
that  was  horrible  did  he  put  in  it  ?  A  light  was  shed 
on  Signor  Leroni,  who  was,  said  the  Gem,  a  good 
dealer  in  plaques,  and  who  was,  Peter  had  thought,  a 
bare-faced  purveyor  of  shams.  Peter  began  to  ques- 
tion the  quality  of  the  osele  that  Leslie  had  purchased 
from  Signor  Sardi. 

How  curious  it  was;  and  rather  tragic,  too.  For 
Hilary,  like  Lord  Evelyn,  had  known  once.  Had 
Hilary  too,  in  ruining  much  else  of  himself,  ruined  his 
critical  faculties  ?  And  could  one  really  do  that  and 
remain  ignorant  of  the  fact  ?  Or  would  one  rather  have 
a  lurking  suspicion,  and  therefore  be  all  the  more 
defiantly  corroborative  of  one's  own  judgment  ?  In 
either  case  one  was  horribly  to  be  pitied;  but  —  but 
one  shouldn't  try  to  edit  art  papers.  And  yet  this 
couldn't  be  conveyed  without  a  lacerating  of  feelings 
that  was  unthinkable.  There  was  always  this  about 
Hilary  —  one  simply  couldn't  bear  to  hurt  him.  He 
was  so  easily  hurt  and  so  often ;  life  used  him  so  hardly 
and  he  felt  it  so  keenly,  that  it  behoved  Peter,  at 


ioo  THE  LEE  SHORE 

least,  to  insert  as  many  cushions  as  possible  between 
him  and  the  sharp  edges  of  circumstance.  Peter  was 
remorseful.  He  had  taken  what  he  should  have  seen 
before  was  an  unforgivable  line ;  he  had  failed  abomin- 
ably in  comprehension  and  decent  feeling.  Poor 
Hilary.  Peter  was  moved  by  the  old  impulse  to  be 
extraordinarily  nice  to  him. 

They  turned  out  of  the  Eio  della  Madonnetta  into 
the  narrow  rio  that  was  the  back  approach  to  the 
Palazzo  Amadeo.  It  is  a  dark  little  canal,  a  rio  of 
the  poor.  The  doors  that  stood  open  in  the  peeling 
brick  walls  above  the  water  let  out  straggling  shafts 
of  lamplight  and  quarrelling  voices  and  singing  and 
the  smell  of  wine.  The  steep  house  walls  leant  to  meet 
one  another  from  either  side ;  from  upper  windows  the 
people  who  hadn't  gone  to  bed  talked  across  a  space  of 
barely  six  feet. 

The  gondola  crept  cautiously  under  two  low  bridges, 
then  stopped  outside  the  water-washed  back  steps  of  the 
Palazzo  Amadeo. 

One  pleasant  thing  about  Lord  Evelyn's  exquisitely 
mannered  poppe  was  that  one  didn't  feel  that  he  was 
thinking  "  I  am  not  accustomed  to  taking  my  master's 
visitors  to  such  low  haunts."  In  the  first  place,  he 
probably  was.  In  the  second,  he  was  not  an  English 
flunkey,  and  not  a  snob.  He  was  no  more  a  snob  than 
the  Margerisons  were,  or  Lord  Evelyn  himself.  He 
deposited  them  at  the  Palace  back  door,  politely  saluted, 
and  slipped  away  down  the  shadowy  water-street. 

Hilary  and  Peter  stepped  up  two  water-washed  steps 
to  the  green  door,  and  Peggy  opened  it  from  within. 
Peggy  (Peter  occasionally  wondered  when,  if  ever,  she 
went  to  bed)  was  in  the  hall,  nursing  Illuminato,  who 
couldn't  sleep  —  a  small  bundle  of  scarlet  night-shirt 
and  round  bullet  head,  burrowing  under  his  mother's 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN        101 

left  arm  and  staring  out  from  that  place  of  comfort 
with  very  bright  and  wakeful  eyes.  When,  indeed,  it 
might  have  been  asked,  did  any  of  the  Margerison 
family  take  their  rest?  ~No  one  of  them  ever  felt  or 
expressed  any  surprise  at  finding  any  other  awake  and 
active  at  any  hour  of  the  night. 

Peggy  looked  at  her  three  male  infants  with  her 

maternal   serenity  touched  with  mirth.     There  were 

nearly  always  those  two  elements  in  Peggy's  look  — 

a  motherly  sympathy  and  desire  to  cheer  and  soothe,  and 

a  glint  from  some  rich  and  golden  store  of  amusement. 

She  patted  Peter  on  the  arm,  softly. 

"  Was  it  a  nice  evening,  then  ?     No,   not  very,   I 

think.     Dear,    dear!     You   both   look   so   unutterably 

tired.     I   wonder   had   you    better   go   to   bed,    quite 

straight  ? " 

It  seemed  to  be  suggested  as  a  last  resource  of  the 
desperate,  though  the  hour  was  close  on  midnight. 

"  And  the  children  have  been  pillow-fighting,  till  Mr. 
Vyvian  —  the  creature  —  came  down  with  nothing  in 
particular  on,  to  complain  to  me  that  he  couldn't  sleep. 
Sleep,  you  know !  It  wasn't  after  ten  —  but  it  seems 
he  had  a  headache,  as  usual,  because  Mrs.  Johnson 
had  insisted  on  going  to  look  at  pictures  with  him  and 
Ehoda,  and  her  remarks  were  such -  Nervous  pros- 
tration, poor  Mr.  Vyvian.  So  I've  had  Illuminato 
down  here  with  me  since  then.  He  wants  to  go  to  you, 
Peter,  as  usual." 

Peter  took  the  scarlet  bundle,  and  it  burrowed 
against  his  shirt-front  with  a  contented  sigh.  Peggy 
watched  the  two  for  a  moment,  then  said  to  the  uncle, 
"  You  poor  little  boy,  you're  tireder  than  Hilary  even. 
You  must  surely  go  to  bed.  But  isn't  Lord  Evelyn 
rather  a  dear  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  dear,"  Peter  answered  her,  his  face  bent 


102  THE  LEE  SHORE 

over  the  round  cropped  head.  "  Altogether  charming 
and  delightful.  Do  you  know,  though,  I'm  not  really 
fond  of  bridge.  Jig-saw  is  my  game  —  and  we  didn't 
have  it.  That's  why  I'm  tried  I  expect.  And  because 
there  was  a  Mr.  Cheriton,  who  stared,  and  seemed  some- 
how to  have  taken  against  us  —  didn't  he,  Hilary  ? 
Or  perhaps  it  was  only  his  queer  manners,  dear  Jim. 
Anyhow,  he  made  me  feel  shy.  It  takes  it  out  of  one, 
not  being  liked.  Nervous  prostration,  like  poor  Mr. 
Vyvian.  So  let's  go  to  bed,  Hilary,  and  leave  these 
two  to  watch  together." 

"  Give  me  the  froglet."  She  took  it  from  his  arms, 
gently,  and  kissed  first  one  then  the  other. 

"  Good  night,  little  Peter.  You  are  a  darling  en- 
tirely, and  I  love  you.  And  don't  worry,  not  over  not 
being  liked  or  anything  else,  because  it  surely  isn't 
worth  it." 

She  was  always  affectionate  and  maternal  to  Peter ; 
but  to-night  she  was  more  so  than  usual.  Looking  at 
her  as  she  stood  in  her  loose,  slatternly  neglige,  beneath 
the  extravagantly  blazing  chandelier,  the  red  bundle 
cuddling  a  round  black  head  into  her  neck,  her  grey 
eyes  smiling  at  him,  lit  with  love  and  laughter  and  a 
pity  that  lay  deeper  than  both,  Peter  was  caught  into 
her  atmosphere  of  debonair  and  tranquil  restfulness, 
that  said  always,  "  Take  life  easy ;  nothing's  worth 
worrying  over,  not  problems  or  poverty  or  even  one's 
sins."  How  entirely  true.  Nothing  was  worth  worry- 
ing over;  certainly  other  people's  strange  points  of 
view  weren't.  It  was  a  gospel  of  ease  and  laissez-faire 
well  suited  to  Peter's  temperament.  He  smiled  at  Peggy 
and  Hilary  and  their  son,  and  went  up  the  marble 
stairs  to  bed.  He  was  haunted  till  he  slept  by  the 
memory  of  Hilary's  nervous,  tired  face  as  he  had  seen 
it  in  the  moonlight  in  the  gondola,  and  again  in  the  hall 


DIANA  AND  LORD  EVELYN        103 

as  lie  said  good  night.  Hilary  wasn't  coming  to  bed 
yet.  He  stayed  to  talk  to  Peggy.  If  anything  could 
be  good  for  Hilary's  moods  of  depression,  thought  Peter, 
Peggy  would.  How  jolly  for  Hilary  to  be  married 
to  her!  She  was  such  a  refreshment  always.  She 
was  so  understanding ;  and  was  there  a  lapse  somewhere 
in  that  very  understandingness  of  her  that  made  it  the 
more  restful  —  that  made  her  a  relaxation  to  strained 
minds  ?  To  those  who  were  breaking  their  moral  sense 
over  some  problem,  she  would  return  simply,  "  There 
isn't  any  problem.  Take  things  as  they  come  and  make 
the  best  of  them,  and  don't,  don't  worry ! "  "  I'm 
struggling  with  a  temptation  to  steal  a  purse,"  Peter 
imagined  himself  saying  to  her,  "  What  can  I  do  about 
it  ?  "  And  her  swift  answer  came,  with  her  indulgent, 
humorous  smile,  "  Dear  little  boy,  if  it  makes  you  any 
happier  —  do  it !  "  And  then  she  would  so  well  under- 
stand the  ensuing  remorse;  she  would  be  so  sympa- 
thetic, so  wholly  dear  and  comforting.  She  would  say 
anything  in  the  world  to  help,  except  "  Put  it  back." 
Even  that  she  would  say  if  one's  own  inclinations  were 
tending  in  that  direction.  But  never  if  they  weren't. 
She  would  never  be  so  hard,  so  unkind.  That  sort  of 
uncongenial  admonition  might  be  left  to  one's  con- 
fessor; wasn't  that  what  confessors  were  there  for? 

But  why  think  of  stealing  purses  so  late  at  night? 
~No  doubt  merely  because  it  was  late  at  night.  Peter 
curled  himself  up  and  drew  the  sheet  over  his  ears  and 
sighed  sleepily.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  rich,  pleasant 
echoes  of  Peggy's  best  nursery  voice  far  off,  and 
Hilary's  high,  plaintive  tones  rising  above  it. 

But  above  both,  dominant  and  insistent,  murmured 
the  lapping  voice  of  the  wonderful  city  at  night.  A  faint 
rhythm  of  snoring  beyond  a  thin  wall  somehow  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Johnson,  and  Peter  laughed  into  his  pillow. 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

PETEB  UNDEBSTANDS 

ON  the  shores  of  the  Lido,  three  days  later,  Peter 
and  Leslie  came  upon  Denis  TJrquhart.  He  was  lying 
on  the  sand  in  the  sun  on  the  Adriatic  side,  and  build- 
ing St.  Mark's,  rather  well.  Peter  stood  and  looked 
at  it  critically. 

"  Not  bad.  But  you'd  better  let  us  help  you. 
We've  been  studying  the  original  exhaustively,  Leslie 
and  I." 

"  A  very  fine  and  remarkable  building,"  said  Leslie, 
ponderously,  and  Peter  laughed  for  the  sheer  pleasure 
of  seeing  Urquhart's  lazy  length  stretched  on  the  warm 
sand. 

"  Cheriton's  somewhere  about,"  said  Urquhart. 
"  But  he  wouldn't  help  me  with  St.  Mark's.  He  was 
all  for  walking  round  the  island  at  a  great  pace  and  see- 
ing how  long  it  took  him.  So  superfluously  energetic, 
isn't  he?  Fancy  being  energetic  in  Venice." 

Peter  was  thankful  that  he  was.  The  thought  of 
Cheriton's  eyes  upon  him  made  him  shudder. 

"  He  has  his  good  points,"  Urquhart  added ;  "  but 
he  excites  himself  too  much.  Always  taking  up  some 
violent  crusade  against  something  or  other.  Can't  live 
and  let  live.  Another  dome  here,  I  think." 

Peter  wondered  if  Cheriton's  latest  crusade  was 
against  Hilary's  taste  in  art,  and  if  so  what  Urquhart 
thought  on  that  subject.  It  was  an  uncomfortable 
thought.  He  characteristically  turned  away  from  it. 

104 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  105 

"  The  intense  blue  of  the  sea,  contrasted  with  the 
fainter  blue  of  the  Euganean  Hills,"  said  Leslie  sud- 
denly, "  is  most  remarkable  and  beautiful.  What  ?  " 

He  was  proud  of  having  noticed  that.  He  was  al- 
ways proud  of  noticing  beauty  unaided.  He  made 
his  remark  with  the  simple  pleasure  of  a  child  in  his 
own  appreciation.  His  glance  at  Peter  said,  "  I  am 
getting  on,  I  think  ?  " 

The  others  agreed  that  he  was  correct.  He  then 
bent  his  great  mind  to  the  completion  of  St.  Mark's, 
and  Urquhart  discovered  what  Peter  had  long  known, 
that  he  could  really  play  in  earnest.  The  reverse  art 
—  handling  serious  issues  with  a  light  touch  —  he  was 
less  good  at.  Grave  subjects,  like  the  blue  of  the  sea 
or  the  shape  of  a  goblet,  he  approached  with  the  same 
solidity  of  earnestness  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  sand 
cathedrals.  It  was  just  this  that  made  him  a  little 
tiring. 

But  the  three  together  on  the  sands  made  a  happy 
and  congruous  party  of  absorbed  children,  till  Cheriton 
the  energetic  came  swinging  back  over  the  sand-hills. 
Peter  saw  him  approaching,  watched  the  resolute  lunge 
of  his  stride.  His  mother  was  about  to  be  married  for 
the  third  time :  one  could  well  believe  it. 

"  I  hope  he  is  going  to  be  nicer  to  me  to-day,"  Peter 
thought.  Even  as  he  hoped  it,  and  before  Cheriton 
saw  the  party  on  the  sands,  Peter  saw  the  determined 
face  stiffen,  and  into  the  vivid  eyes  came  the  blank 
look  of  one  who  is  cutting  somebody.  Peter  turned  and 
looked  behind  him  to  see  who  it  was,  and  saw  Mr.  Guy 
Vyvian  approaching.  It  was  obvious  from  his  checked 
recognition  that  he  thought  he  knew  Cheriton,  and  that 
Cheriton  did  not  share  the  opinion.  Peter  saw 
Vyvian's  mortified  colour  rise;  he  was  a  vain  and 
sensitive  person. 


io6  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Cheriton  came  and  sat  down  among  them.  His 
words  as  he  did  so,  audibly  muttered,  were,  "  The  most 
unmitigated  cad !  "  He  looked  angry.  Then  he  saw 
Peter,  and  seemed  a  little  surprised,  but  did  not  cut 
him;  he  hardly  could.  Peter  supposed  that  he  owed 
this  only  to  the  accident  of  Urquhart's  presence,  since 
this  young  man  seemed  to  go  about  the  world  ignoring 
everyone  who  did  not  please  his  fastidious  fancy,  and 
Peter  could  not  hope  that  he  had  done  that. 

Peter  looked  after  Vyvian's  retreating  figure.  He 
could  detect  injured  pride  in  his  back. 

He  got  up  and  brushed  the  sand  from  him. 

"  I  must  go  and  talk  to  that  man,"  he  said.  "  He's 
lodging  with  my  brother." 

The  situation  for  a  moment  was  slightly  difficult. 
Leslie  and  Urquhart  had  both  heard  Cheriton's  de- 
scription of  Peter's  brother's  lodger.  Besides,  they  had 
seen  him,  and  that  was  enough. 

It  was  unlike  Peter  to  make  awkward  situations. 
He  ended  this  one  abruptly  by  leaving  it  to  itself,  and 
walking  away  after  his  brother's  lodger. 

Vyvian  greeted  him  huffily.  It  needed  all  Peter's 
feeling  for  a  hurt  man  to  make  him  anything  but  dis- 
tantly aloof.  Cheriton's  description  was  so  manifestly 
correct.  The  man  was  a  cad  — •  an  oily  bounder  with 
a  poisonous  mind.  Peter  wondered  how  Hilary  could 
bear  to  have  his  help  on  the  Gem. 

Vyvian  broke  out  about  Cheriton. 

"  Did  you  see  that  grand  fellow  who  was  too  proud 
to  know  me?  Driven  you  away  too,  has  he?  We 
don't  know  people  in  boarding-houses  —  we're  in  our 
private  flat  ourselves !  It  makes  me  sick !  " 

But  his  vulgarity  when  he  was  angry  was  a  shade 
less  revolting,  because  more  excusable,  than  when  he 
wasn't.  So  Peter  bore  it,  and  even  tried  to  be  com- 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  107 

forting,  and  to  talk  about  pictures.  Vyvian  really 
knew  something  about  art ;  Peter  was  a  little  surprised 
to  find  that  he  knew  so  much,  remembering  certain 
curious  blunders  of  his  in  the  Gem. 

He  did  not  talk  about  the  Gem  to  Vyvian;  in- 
stinctively he  avoided  it.  Peter  had  a  rather  useful 
power  of  barring  his  mind  against  thoughts  that  he 
did  not  desire  to  have  there;  without  reasoning  about 
it,  he  had  placed  the  Gem  in  this  category. 

He  was  absently  watching  the  dim  blue  of  the 
Euganean  Hills  against  the  clearer  blue  of  the  sky 
when  he  discovered  that  Vyvian  was  talking  about 
Ehoda  Johnson. 

"  A  dear  little  gurl,  with  real  possibilities,  if  one 
could  develop  them.  I  do  my  best.  She's  fond  enough 
of  me  to  let  me  mould  her  atrocious  taste.  But  what 
can  one  do  to  fight  the  lifelong  influence  of  a  home  like 
that  —  a  mother  like  that?  Oh,  frightful!  But  she 
is  fond  of  me,  and  there's  her  hope " 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Peter.  "  I  must  go."  He  could 
not  for  the  life  of  him  have  said  any  of  the  other 
things  he  was  thinking.  He  would  have  given  a  lot 
to  have  been  Cheriton  for  the  moment,  so  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  being  rude  and  violent.  It  was  horri- 
bly feeble ;  all  he  could  say  was  "  Goodbye."  Having 
said  it,  he  went  abruptly. 

He  sighed  as  he  went  back  to  Urquhart  and  Leslie. 
Things  were  so  difficult  to  manage.  One  left  one's 
friends  to  comfort  a  hurt  bounder;  that  was  all  very 
well,  but  what  if  the  bounder  comforted  was  much 
more  offensive  than  the  bounder  hurt?  However,  it 
was  no  good  reasoning  about  these  things.  Peter 
knew  that  one  had  to  try  and  cheer  up  the  hurt,  in 
the  face  of  all  reason,  simply  because  one  felt  so  un- 
comfortable oneself  if  one  didn't. 


io8  THE  LEE  SHORE 

But  it  was  almost  worth  while  to  have  a  few  rather 
revolting  people  about ;  they  threw  the  others  into  such 
glorious  relief.  As  long  as  there  were  the  nice  peo- 
ple, who  laughed  at  life  and  themselves,  playing  about 
the  world,  nothing  else  in  particular  mattered.  And 
it  was  really  extraordinarily  good  luck  that  Urquhart 
should  happen  to  be  playing  about  Venice  at  the  same 
time  as  Peter.  In  spite  of  Cheriton,  they  would  have 
a  good  time  together.  And  Cheriton  would  perhaps 
become  friendly  in  time  —  dear  Jim,  with  his  queer 
manners.  People  mostly  did  become  friendly,  in  quite 
a  short  time,  according  to  Peter's  experience. 

That  the  time,  as  far  as  Cheriton  was  concerned, 
had  not  yet  arrived,  was  rather  obvious,  however.  His 
manners  to  Peter  on  the  sands  were  still  quite  queer  — 
so  queer  that  Peter  and  Leslie  only  stayed  a  few  min- 
utes more.  Peter  refused  Urquhart's  suggestion  that 
they  should  have  tea  together  on  the  island,  and  they 
crossed  over  to  the  lagoon  side  and  got  into  their  wait- 
ing gondola. 

The  lagoon  waters  were  smooth  like  glass,  and  pale, 
and  unflushed  as  yet  with  the  coming  sunset.  Dark 
lines  of  stakes  marked  the  blue  ship-ways  that  ran  out 
to  open  sea,  and  down  them  plied  the  ships,  spreading 
painted  wings  to  the  evening  breeze. 

Leslie  said,  "  I  see  in  the  Gem  that  there  is  a  good 
old  well-head  to  be  had  from  a  man  on  the  Eiva  Ca'  di 
Dio.  I  want  well-heads,  as  you  know.  We'll  go  and 
see,  shall  we  ?  " 

The  crystal  peace  of  the  lagoon  was  shattered  for 
Peter.  He  had  been  getting  into  a  curious  mood  of 
late;  he  almost  disliked  well-heads,  and  other  pur- 
chasable forms  of  beauty.  After  all,  when  one  had  this 
limpid  loveliness  of  smooth  water  and  men  walking  on 
its  surface  like  St.  Peter,  why  want  anything  more? 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  109 

Because,  Leslie  would  say,  one  wants  to  possess,  to  call 
beauty  one's  own.  Bother,  said  Peter,  the  vice  of  the 
age,  which  was  certainly  acquisitiveness.  He  was 
coming  to  the  conclusion  that  he  hated  buying  things. 
And  it  was  so  awkward  to  explain  to  Leslie  about  Hilary 
and  the  Gem.  He  had  spent  the  last  few  days  in  try- 
ing, without  too  much  giving  Hilary  away,  to  restrain 
Leslie  from  following  his  advice.  He  said  now,  "  All 
right ;  we'll  go  and  see.  But,  to  say  the  truth,  I'm  not 
sure  that  Hilary  is  a  very  good  authority  on  well- 
heads." He  blushed  a  little  as  he  said  it ;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  been  saying  that  sort  of  thing  very 
often  of  late.  Leslie  was  so  persistent,  so  incorrigibly 
intent  on  his  purpose. 

Leslie  looked  at  him  now  over  his  large  cigar  a  little 
speculatively. 

"  According  to  you,"  he  remarked  placidly  after  a 
moment,  "  your  brother  is  uncommonly  little  of  an 
authority  on  anything  he  mentions.  Fraternal  scepti- 
cism developed  to  its  highest  point." 

Peter  nodded.  "  Our  family  way,"  he  said ;  and 
added,  "  Besides,  that  Vyvian  man  does  as  much  of  the 
Gem  as  Hilary.  There's  a  young  man,  Leslie!  My 
word,  what  a  dog !  Talks  about  gurls.  So  I  left  him. 
I  turned  upon  him  and  said,  '  Sir,  this  is  no  talk  for  a 
gentleman  to  listen  to.'  I  said  it  because  I  knew  it 
was  what  he  would  expect.  Then  I  turned  on  my  heel 
and  left  him  without  a  word.  He  ground  his  teeth  and 
hissed,  '  A  time  will  come.'  But  Cheriton  seems  rather 
a  rude  man,  all  the  same.  He  hurts  my  feelings  too, 
whenever  I  meet  him.  I  too  hiss,  '  A  time  will  come.' 
But  I  don't  believe  it  ever  will.  Do  you  suppose  the 
water  is  shallow  over  there,  or  that  the  men  walking  on 
it  are  doing  miracles?  It  must  be  fun,  either  way. 
Let's  do  it  instead  of  buying  well-heads,  Leslie.  The 


no  THE  LEE  SHORE 

fact  is,  buying  so  many  things  is  rather  demoralising, 
I  think.  Let's  decide  to  buy  no  more.  I'm  beginning 
to  believe  in  the  simple  life,  like  Rodney.  Rodney 
hates  men  like  you  and  Urquhart  —  rolling  plutocrats. 
He  wanted  me  to  leave  you  and  the  other  plutocrats  and 
be  a  travelling  pedlar.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't,  be- 
fore long." 

"  Can't  spare  you,"  Leslie  grunted. 

Peter  flattered  himself  that  he  had  successfully 
turned  the  conversation  from  well-heads. 

When,  after  having  tea  with  Leslie  at  Florian's,  he 
returned  to  the  Palazzo  Amadeo,  Teresina  told  him  that 
someone  had  called  to  see  the  Signore,  and  the  Signore, 
being  out,  was  waiting  in  the  saloon.  Peter  went  to 
the  saloon  to  see  if  he  would  do  instead  of  the  Signore, 
and  found  a  stout  gentleman  with  a  black  moustache 
and  up-brushed  hair,  spitting  on  the  saloon  floor.  A  re- 
volting habit,  as  Hilary  was  wont  wearily  to  remark; 
but  Peter  always  accepted  it  with  anyhow  outward 
equanimity. 

"  My  brother  is  unfortunately  away  from  the  house," 
he  explained,  with  his  polite  smile  and  atrocious  Italian. 
"  But  perhaps  I  can  give  him  a  message  ?  " 

The  visitor  gave  him  a  sharp  look,  bowed  cere- 
moniously, and  said,  "  Ah !  The  Signore  is  the  brother 
of  Signer  Margerison  ?  Truly  the  brother  ?  " 

Peter  assured  him,  not  even  halving  the  relationship ; 
and  indeed,  he  seldom  did  that,  even  in  his  thoughts. 

The  visitor  gave  him  a  card,  bearing  the  name  of 
Signer  Giacomo  Stefani,  sat  down,  at  Peter's  request, 
spat  between  his  feet,  and  said,  "  I  have  had  various 
affairs  with  your  Signer  brother  before.  I  am  come 
to  solicit  his  patronage  in  the  matter  of  a  pair  of  vases. 
If  he  would  recommend  them  for  me  in  his  paper,  as 
before.  They  are  good;  they  might  easily  be  antiques." 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  in 

"  You  wish  my  brother  to  mention  them  in  his 
paper  ?  "  Peter  gathered.  He  was  correct. 

"Exactly  so,"  Signer  Stefani  told  him.  "Of 
course,  on  the  same  terms  as  before,  if  the  Signor 
would  be  satisfied  with  them." 

"  Terms  ?  "  Peter  repeated  after  him. 

Signor  Stefani  became  more  explicit.  He  named  the 
terms. 

"  That  was  what  I  paid  Signor  Margerison  before, 
for  an  article  on  a  pseudo-Sienese  chalice.  But  the 
vases  are  better;  they  are  good;  they  might  deceive 
an  expert.  Truly,  they  might  be  antiques !  " 

He  continued  to  talk,  while  Peter  listened.  He  was 
taking  it  in  rather  slowly.  But  at  last,  not  being 
stupid,  he  no  longer  thought  Hilary  so.  He  under- 
stood. 

He  stood  up  presently,  looking  a  little  dazed. 

"  It  appears,"  he  said  slowly,  in  his  broken  Italian, 
to  Signor  Stefani,  "  that  you  are  making  a  rather  bad 
mistake,  which  is  a  pity.  I  think  you  had  better  go 
home." 

Signor  Stefani  gave  a  startled  upward  twist  to  his 
moustache,  and  stood  up  too. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said  rather  angrily,  "  there  is  no 
mistake.  Your  brother  and  I  have  very  frequently 
had  affairs  together." 

Peter  looked  at  him,  frowning  doubtfully  as  he  col- 
lected his  words. 

"  I  am  right,  I  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  you  are 
offering  my  brother  a  bribe  to  publish  a  fraudulent 
article  on  fraudulent  goods  of  yours  ?  That  is  so  ? 
Then,  as  I  said,  you  are  making  a  very  serious  mis- 
take, and  .  .  .  and  you  had  better  go  home.  Will  you 
come  this  way,  please  ?  " 

Signor  Stefani  continued  to  talk,  but  so  rapidly  and 


112  THE  LEE  SHORE 

loudly  now  that  Peter  couldn't  follow  him.  He  merely 
shook  his  head  and  opened  the  door,  saying,  "  This  way, 
please.  I  can't  understand  you  when  you  talk  so  fast." 

Signor  Stefani,  with  a  final  angry  shrug  and  ex- 
pectoration, permitted  himself  to  be  ushered  out  of  the 
room. 

On  the  stairs  outside  they  met  Vyvian  coming  up, 
who  nodded  affably  to  both  of  them.  Signor  Stefani, 
as  he  passed,  shrugged  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears  and 
spread  his  two  hands  wide,  with  a  look  of  resigned  de- 
spair over  his  shoulder  at  Peter,  and  Vyvian's  brows 
went  up  at  the  gesture.  Peter  ushered  his  guest  out 
at  the  street  entrance.  Signor  Stefani's  last  words 
were,  "  I  shall  return  shortly  and  see  your  brother  in 
person.  I  have  made  a  foolish  mistake  in  thinking 
that  you  were  in  his  confidence.  Good  evening." 

So  they  parted,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Peter  met  Vyvian  again  on  the  stairs.  He  was  pass- 
ing on,  but  Vyvian  stopped  and  said,  "  What  have  you 
been  doing  to  Stefani  to  put  him  out  so  ?  " 

Peter  stopped  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  He 
felt  rather  dazed,  as  if  someone  had  hit  him  a  blow 
on  the  head.  He  had  to  remember  what  was  this  funny 
bounder's  place  in  the  newly-revealed  scheme  of  things. 
!Not  merely  a  funny  bounder  after  all,  it  seemed,  but 
just  what  Cheriton  had  called  him.  But  one  couldn't 
let  him  know  that  one  thought  so ;  one  was  ostensibly  on 
Hilary's  side,  against  honesty,  against  decency,  against 
all  the  world. 

So  Peter,  having  located  Vyvian  and  himself  in  this 
matter,  said  nothing  at  all,  but  went  on  upstairs. 

Vyvian,  staring  after  him  in  astonishment  (none  of 
Hilary's  boarders  had  seen  Peter  discourteous  before), 
raised  his  eyebrows  again,  and  whistled  beneath  his 
breath. 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  113 

"  So  we're  too  fine  for  our  brother's  dirty  jobs ! 
I'm  dashed  if  I  don't  believe  it's  that !  " 

Peter  went  upstairs  rather  too  quickly  for  his  heart. 
He  returned  to  the  saloon  and  collapsed  suddenly  into 
a  chair,  feeling  giddy.  Mrs.  Johnson  came  in  a  mo- 
ment later  and  found  him  leaning  back  with  closed  eyes. 
She  was  disturbed  about  his  complexion. 

"  The  colour  of  putty,  poor  Mr.  Peter !  You've  bin 
excitin'  yourself,  tearin'  about  sight-seein',  I  know. 
Tell  me  now  just  how  you  feel.  I'm  blest  if  I  don't  be- 
lieve you've  a-bin  in  the  Cathedral,  smellin'  at  that 
there  choky  incense!  It  takes  me  like  that,  always; 
and  Miss  Gould  says  she's  just  the  same.  Funny  feel- 
in's  within,  haven't  you  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  "  just  exactly  that " ;  and  they 
so  overcame  him  that  he  began  to  laugh  helplessly. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Johnson,"  he  said  presently.  "  I'm 
an  ass.  But  I'm  all  right  now.  I  came  upstairs  in  a 
hurry,  that's  all.  And  before  that  a  man  talked  so 
loud  and  so  fast  that  it  took  my  breath  away.  It  may 
be  silly,  but  I  am  like  that,  as  Miss  Barnett  says.  My 
brother  and  sister-in-law  are  both  out,  aren't  they  ?  " 

Mrs.  Johnson,  sitting  down  opposite  him  and  study- 
ing the  returning  tints  of  his  complexion,  nodded. 

"  That's  it,"  she  said,  more  cheerfully.  "  You're 
gettin'  a  wholesome  white  again  now.  I  didn't  like 
that  unhealthy  greeny-grey.  But  you've  none  of  you 
any  colour,  you  gentlemen  —  not  you  nor  your  brother 
nor  that  pasty  Vyvian.  None  of  you  but  the  little 
curate ;  he  had  a  nice  little  pink  face.  I'm  sure  I  wish 
some  gals  cared  more  for  looks,  and  then  they  wouldn't 
go  after  some  as  are  as  well  let  alone."  This  cryptic 
remark  was  illuminated  by  a  sigh.  Mrs.  Johnson,  now 
that  she  saw  Peter  improving  in  complexion,  reverted 
to  her  own  troubles. 


114  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter  replied  vaguely,  "  No,  I  suppose  they  wouldn't. 
People  ought  to  care  for  looks,  of  course.  They  matter 
so  much  more  than  anything  else,  really." 

"  Without  goin'  all  that  way  with  you,  Mr.  Peter," 
said  Mrs.  Johnson,  "  and  with  all  due  respect  to  Great 
Minds  (which  I  haven't  got  and  never  shall  have,  and 
nor  had  my  poor  dear  that's  gone,  so  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  where  Ehoder  got  her  leanin's  from),  I  will  say 
I  do  like  to  see  a  young  man  smart  and  well-kept.  It 
means  a  respect  for  himself,  not  to  mention  for  those 
he  takes  out,  that  is  a  stand-by,  at  least  for  a  mother. 
And  the  young  fellows  affect  the  gals,  too.  Ehoder, 
now  —  she'd  take  some  pains  with  herself  if  she  went 
out  with  a  smart  fellow,  that  was  nicely  turned  out  him- 
self and  expected  her  to  be  the  same.  But  as  it  is  — 
hair  dragged  and  parted  like  a  queer  picture,  and  a 
string  of  green  beads  for  a  collar,  as  if  she  was  a 
Roman  with  prayers  to  say  —  and  her  waist,  Mr.  Peter ! 
But  there,  I  oughtn't  to  talk  like  this  to  a  gentleman, 
as  Miss  Gould  would  say;  (I  do  keep  on  shockin'  Miss 
Gould,  you  know!)  But  I  find  it  hard  to  rec'lect  that 
about  you,  Mr.  Peter ;  you're  so  sympathetic,  you  might 
be  a  young  lady.  An'  I  feel  it's  all  safe  with  you,  an' 
I  do  believe  you'd  help  me  if  you  could." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to,"  said  Peter,  wondering  whether 
it  was  for  the  improvement  of  Rhoda's  hair,  waist,  or 
collar  that  his  assistance  might  be  acceptable. 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  looking  at  him  very  earnestly;  it 
was  obvious  that  something  was  seriously  amiss,  and 
that  she  was  wondering  how  much  she  could  venture  to 
say  to  this  sympathetic  young  man  who  might  be  a 
young  lady.  She  made  a  sudden  gesture  with  her  stout 
hands,  as  if  flinging  reticence  to  the  winds,  and  leant 
forward  towards  him. 

"  Mr.  Peter  ...  I  don't  hardly  like  to  say  it  ... 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  115 

but  could  you  take  my  gal  out  sometimes?  It  does 
sound  a  funny  thing  to  ask  —  but  I  can't  abide  it  that 
she  should  be  for  ever  with  that  there  Vyvian.  I  don't 
like  him,  and  there  it  is.  And  Ehoder  does  .  .  .  And 
he's  just  amusin'  himself,  and  I  can't  bear  it  for  my 
little  gal,  that's  where  it  is.  ...  Mr.  Peter,  I  hate  the 
fellow,  though  you  may  say  I'm  no  Christian  for  it, 
and  of  course  one  is  bidden  not  to  judge  but  to  love  all 
men.  But  he  fair  gives  me  the  creeps,  like  a  toad. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  that  feelin'  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Peter  readily.  "  And  of  course,  I 
should  like  immensely  to  go  out  with  Miss  Ehoda  some- 
times, if  she'll  let  me.  But  do  you  think  she  will? 
I'm  afraid  she  would  be  dreadfully  bored  with  me.  I 
haven't  a  Great  Mind,  you  know." 

"  Ehoder  likes  you,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  a  smile  of 
relief  overspreading  her  jolly  face.  "  She  was  sayin' 
so  only  the  other  day.  She  has  a  great  respect  for 
your  knowledge  of  art,  too.  '  You  wouldn't  think  it 
just  to  talk  with  him,'  she  said,  l  but  he  knows  the  most 
surprisin'  things.  Knows  them  for  himself ' —  that 
was  how  she  put  it  — '  without  needin'  to  depend  on 
any  books,  or  what  anyone  else  says.  I  wish  I  was 
like  that,  mother,'  she  says,  and  sighs.  And  of  course, 
I  knew  why  she  wished  that,  and  I  said  to  her,  '  Ehoder, 
my  dear,  never  you  mind  about  knowin'  things;  gals 
don't  need  to  bother  their  heads  about  that.  You  look 
after  the  outside  of  your  head,'  I  said,  chaffing  her 
about  her  hair,  you  know,  '  and  leave  the  inside  to 
look  after  itself.'  I  made  her  cross,  of  course;  I'm 
for  ever  makin'  Ehoder  cross  without  meanin'  it.  But 
that  just  shows  what  she  feels  towards  you,  you  see. 
And  you'd  talk  healthy-like  to  her,  which  is  more  than 
some  does,  if  I  know  anythin'.  One  feels  that  of  you, 
Mr.  Peter,  if  you'll  excuse  my  sayin'  it,  that  your  talk 


Ii6  THE  LEE  SHORE 

is  as  innocent  as  a  baby's  prattle,  though  it  mayn't  al- 
ways mean  much." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Peter.  "  I  will  cer- 
tainly prattle  to  Miss  Rhoda  whenever  she  will  let  me. 
I  should  enjoy  it,  of  course." 

"  Then  that's  settled."  Mrs.  Johnson  rose,  and 
shook  out  her  skirts  with  relief.  "  And  a  weight  off 
my  mind  it  will  be.  .  .  .  You  could  make  a  third  with 
Rhoder  and  that  Vyvian  to-morrow  afternoon,  if  you 
were  so  good  and  not  otherwise  employed.  They're  off 
together  somewhere,  I  know." 

"  Making  a  third  "  was  a  little  beyond  even  Peter's 
readiness  to  be  helpful,  and  he  looked  dubious. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Vyvian  would  let  me  do  that. 
You  see,  he  doesn't  much  like  me.  I  expect  I  give 
him  the  creeps,  like  a  toad.  .  .  ."  Then,  seeing  Mrs. 
Johnson's  relieved  face  cloud,  he  added,  "  Oh,  well, 
I'll  ask  them  to  take  me,"  and  she  smiled  at  him  as  at  a 
good  child.  "  I  knew  you  would !  " 

Hilary  didn't  come  in  to  dinner.  That  was  as  well ; 
it  gave  Peter  more  time.  Perhaps  it  would  be  easier 
late  at  night  to  speak  of  the  hopeless,  weary,  impossible 
things  that  had  suddenly  risen  in  the  way;  easier  to 
think  of  things  to  say  about  them  that  wouldn't  too 
much  hurt  Hilary  or  himself. 

At  dinner  Peter  was  very  quiet  and  polite  to  every- 
one. Vyvian's  demeanour  towards  him  was  touched 
with  irony;  his  smile  was  a  continual  reference  to  the 
fellowship  of  secrecy  that  bound  them.  Rhoda  was 
very  silent ;  Peter  supposed  that  Vyvian  had  been  snub- 
bing her. 

Hilary  came  home  late.  Peter  and  Peggy  and 
Vyvian  were  sitting  in  the  dimly-lighted  saloon,  and  the 
ubiquitous  Illuminate  was  curled  up,  a  sleepy  ball,  on 
the  marble  top  of  a  book-case.  Peggy  had  a  habit  of 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  117 

leaving  him  lying  about  in  convenient  corners,  as  a  lit- 
tle girl  her  doll. 

"  You  look  tired  to  death,  my  dear,"  she  commented, 
as  Hilary  came  in.  Her  kindly  grey  eyes  turned  from 
him  to  Peter,  who  had  looked  up  from  the  book  he  was 
reading  with  a  nervous  movement.  Peter's  sweet- 
tempered  companionableness  had  been  oddly  obscured 
this  evening.  Perhaps  he  too  was  tired  to  death.  And 
poor  little  Ehoda  had  been  so  unmercifully  snubbed  all 
the  evening  that  at  last  she  had  crept  up  to  bed  all  but 
in  tears.  Peggy  felt  very  sorry  for  everyone  to-night; 
they  all  seemed  to  need  it  so  much. 

Vyvian,  as  usual,  had  a  headache.  When  Hilary 
came  in,  he  rose  and  said  he  was  going  upstairs  to 
try  and  get  some  sleep  —  an  endeavour  seldom  success- 
ful in  this  noisy  and  jarring  world,  one  gathered.  Be- 
fore he  embarked  on  it  he  said  to  Peter,  squirting  soda 
into  a  large  tumbler  of  whisky,  "  Stef  ani  want  anything 
particular  to-day  ? " 

He  had  waited  to  say  it  till  Hilary  came  in.  Peter 
supposed  that  he  said  it  merely  out  of  his  general  desire 
to  be  unpleasant,  and  perhaps  to  revenge  himself  for 
that  unanswered  enquiry  on  the  stairs.  Or  possibly  he 
merely  wished  to  indicate  to  Peter  how  entirely  he  was 
privy  to  Stefani's  business  with  Hilary,  and  that  it 
might  just  as  well  be  discussed  in  his  presence.  Or 
again,  he  might  be  desirous  of  finding  out  how  far  Peter 
himself  was  in  the  know. 

Peter  said,  "  Nothing  very  particular,"  and  bent 
over  Illuminate,  that  he  might  not  meet  Hilary's  eyes 
or  Peggy's.  He  knew  that  Hilary  was  violently 
startled,  and  he  heard  Peggy's  softly  let  out  breath, 
that  might  have  been  a  sigh  or  a  gentle  whistle,  and 
that  conveyed  in  either  case  dismay  touched  with  a 
laugh. 


u8  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Vyvian,  who  had  been  watching  the  three  with  a 
covert  smile,  drained  his  glass  and  said,  "  Well,  it's 
supposed  to  be  partly  my  business,  you  know.  But 
since  you  don't  think  so,  I'll  say  goodnight." 

He  included  the  three  in  a  supercilious  nod,  and  left 
the  room. 

He  left  a  queer  silence  behind  him.  When  it  had 
lasted  for  a  moment,  Peter  looked  up  from  his  inspec- 
tion of  Illuminato's  screwed-up  face,  with  an  effort,  and 
met  Hilary's  eyes  searching  his  own.  Peggy  was  in  the 
background;  later  she  would  be  a  comforting,  easing 
presence;  but  for  the  moment  the  situation  held  only 
these  two,  and  Peter's  eyes  pleaded  to  Hilary's,  "  For- 
give me;  I  am  horribly  sorry,"  and  in  Hilary's 
strained  face  shame  intolerably  grew,  so  that  Peter 
looked  away  from  it,  bending  over  Illuminate  in  his 
arms. 

It  was  Peggy  who  broke  the  silence  with  a  tearful 
laugh. 

"  Oh,  don't  look  like  that,  you  poor  darling  boys ! 
Peter,  little  dear  Peter  .  .  .  you  must  try  and  under- 
stand !  You're  good  at  understanding,  you  know.  Oh, 
take  it  easy,  my  dear!  Take  it  easy,  and  see  how  it's 
nothing  to  matter,  how  it's  all  one  great  joke  after  all !  " 
Her  arm  was  round  his  shoulders  as  he  sat  on  the 
table's  edge ;  she  was  comforting  him  like  a  child.  To 
her  he  was  always  about  Illuminato's  age,  a  most  beloved 
infant. 

Peter  smiled  a  little  at  her.  "  Why,  yes,  of  course 
it's  a  joke.  Everything  is,  isn't  it.  But  .  .  . 
but  .  .  ." 

He  was  more  than  ever  a  child,  stammering  unword- 
able  protest,  blindly  reaching  out  for  help. 

Hilary  stood  before  him  now,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  nervous,  irritable,  weary,  shame  now  masked 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  119 

by  self-defence.  That  was  better;  but  still  Peter  kept 
his  eyes  for  the  curled-up  child. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Hilary,  in  his  sweet,  plaintive 
tones,  edged  with  irritation,  "  if  people  like  to  be  taken 
in,  is  it  my  business  ?  " 

And  Peggy  echoed,  "  Yes,  Peter  darling,  is  it 
Hilary's  business  ?  " 

Then  Peter  laughed  suddenly.  After  all,  it  was  all 
too  hopeless,  and  too  absurd,  for  anything  else. 

"  You  can't  go  on,  you  know,"  he  said  then. 
"  You've  got  to  resign."  And  Peggy  looked  at  him 
in  surprise,  for  he  spoke  now  like  a  man  instead  of  a 
child,  with  a  man's  finality.  He  wasn't  giving  a  com- 
mand, but  stating  an  obvious  fact. 

"  Darling  —  we've  got  to  live !  "     Peggy  murmured. 

"  You  mayn't  see  the  necessity,"  Hilary  ironically 
put  the  approved  answer  into  Peter's  mouth,  "  but  we, 
unfortunately,  do." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  silly,"  said  Peter  unusually.  "  You 
are  being  silly,  you  know;  merely  absurd.  Because, 
of  course,  it's  simply  a  question  between  resigning  and 
being  chucked  out  before  long.  You  can't  go  on  with 
this  sort  of  thing  indefinitely.  You  see,"  he  explained, 
apologetic  now,  "  it  isn't  even  as  if  you  did  it  well. 
You  really  don't.  And  it's  an  awfully  easy  thing  to 
see  through,  if  once  anyone  gets  on  the  track.  All  that 
rubbish  you've  saddled  Lord  Evelyn  with  —  anyone  who 
isn't  as  blind  as  a  bat  can  spot  it  in  a  minute.  I  did ; 
Cheriton  has  (that's  why  he's  so  queer-mannered,  by 
the  way,  I  suppose)  ;  probably  Denis  has.  Well,  with 
everyone  knowing  about  it  like  that,  someone  is  bound 
before  long  to  ferret  out  the  real  facts.  Cheriton  won't 
be  long,  I  fancy,  before  he  gets  hold  of  it  all.  And 
then  — :  and  then  it  will  be  so  frightfully  awkward. 
Oh,  you  can't  go  on,  Hilary;  you've  got  to  drop  it." 


120  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  You're  talking  very  lightly,"  said  Hilary,  "  of 
throwing  up  one's  entire  income." 

Peter  sighed.  "  Not  lightly ;  I'm  really  not.  I 
.know  what  a  bore  it  will  be  —  but  not  such  a  bore  as 
the  other  thing.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  don't  throw  it  up: 
simply  chuck  Stefani  and  the  rest,  and  run  the  thing 
on  different  lines.  I'd  help,  if  you'd  let  me.  I'd 
chuck  Leslie  and  stay  on  here  and  write  for  you.  I 
would  love  to.  I  made  a  start  to-day,  you  see;  I  told 
Stefani  he  was  out  of  his  reckonings,  so  he'll  be  pre- 
pared. We'll  tell  all  the  rest  the  same.  ...  I  suppose 
Vyvian's  in  it,  too?  Can't  you  get  rid  of  the  man? 
I  do  so  dislike  him,  you  know.  Well,  never  mind ;  any- 
how, we'll  tell  him  he's  got  to  run  on  new  lines  now. 
Oh,  we'll  make  a  decent  thing  of  the  Gem  after  all; 
Hilary,  do  let's.  Peggy,  don't  you  think  that  would  be 
jolly?" 

He  looked  up  into  his  sister-in-law's  face,  and  met 
smiling  eyes  suddenly  tear-dimmed.  She  smiled  down 
at  him. 

"  Very  jolly,  you  beloved  child.  ...  So  you'll 
chuck  your  Mr.  Leslie  and  your  own  profession  and 
help  to  run  the  Gem  ?  I  don't  think  we  can  let  him  do 
that,  Hilary,  can  we  ?  " 

Hilary's  strained  face  had  softened  and  relaxed. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  it  would  be  in  many 
ways  a  great  relief  to  me  to  drop  that  side  of  the  busi- 
ness, if  I  could  see  my  way  to  it.  But  it  won't  be  easy 
now,  Peter.  It  will  mean  a  certain  amount  of  going 
back  on  former  statements,  for  one  thing." 

"  Oh,  that'll  be  all  right.  Papers  are  always  doing 
that.  We'll  manage  all  right  and  put  a  good  face  on 
it.  And  we'll  make  the  thing  sell  —  make  it  funny 
and  interesting  and  nice.  Of  course,  if  Leslie  is  will- 
ing for  me  to  give  part  of  my  time  to  it,  there's  no  rea- 


PETER  UNDERSTANDS  121 

son  why  I  should  leave  him,  as  long  as  he  stays  in 
Venice.  It  will  be  all  in  his  interests  really,  because 
he  can  get  tips  from  the  Gem.  I've  warned  him  off 
it  lately  because  I  thought  you  were  such  an  awful 
muddler,  Hilary.  By  the  way,  it's  rather  a  relief  that 
you  aren't  quite  so  wanting  as  I  was  beginning  to  fear ; 
seriously,  I  was  wondering  how  on  earth  you  were  go- 
ing to  get  through  this  difficult  world.  There's  no 
remedy  for  a  muddler ;  he  can't  mend." 

But  a  swindler  can;  a  swindler  certainly  must,  that 
was  conveyed  by  the  appeal  in  Peter's  tired  face.  So 
tired  it  was  that  Peggy  gently  took  Illuminate  from  his 
uncle's  arms  and  said,  "  And  now  we'll  all  go  to  bed. 
My  beloved  little  brother  —  you're  an  angel  in  the  house, 
and  we'll  all  do  just  as  you  say,  if  it's  only  to  make  you 
smile  again.  Won't  we,  Hilary  ?  " 

She  leant  a  soft  cheek  against  Hilary's  shoulder, 
smiling  at  Peter;  but  Peter  waited  for  Hilary's  reply 
before  he  smiled  back. 

Hilary's  reply  came  after  a  moment. 

"  Of  course,  if  Peter  can  contrive  a  way  of  keeping 
our  heads  above  water  without  having  recourse  to  these 
detestable  methods,  I  shall  be  only  too  relieved.  I 
loathe  having  to  traffic  with  these  dirty  swindlers;  it's 
too  insufferably  wearying  and  degrading.  .  .  .  By  the 
way,  Peter,  what  did  Stef  ani  want  to-day  ?  " 

Peter  said,  "  Oh,  bother  Stefani.  I'm  tired  of  him. 
Really,  I  can't  remember  —  oh,  yes,  it  was  antique 
vases,  that  might  deceive  an  expert.  But  let's  stop 
thinking  about  Stefani  and  go  to  bed.  I'm  so  awfully 
sleepy;  do  let's  go  upstairs  and  try  to  get  a  little  rest, 
as  Vyvian  puts  it." 

Peggy  patted  him  softly  on  the  cheek  as  he  passed 
her,  and  her  smile  for  him  was  curiously  pitiful. 

"We'll  do  our  best  to  mend,  my  dear;  we'll  do  our 


122  THE  LEE  SHORE 

best,"  was  what  she  soothingly  murmured ;  and  then,  to 
Illuminate,  "  There,  my  froglet ;  cuddle  up  and  sleep," 
and  to  Hilary,  "  You  poor  old  dear,  will  we  let  the  lit- 
tle brother  have  his  way,  because  he's  a  darling  entirely, 
and  quite  altogether  in  the  right  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    FAT    IN   THE    FIRE 

PETEB,  self-appointed  sub-editor  to  the  Gem,  was  re- 
vising a  dissertation  of  Vyvian's  on  lace.  It  was  a 
difficult  business,  this.  Vyvian,  in  Peter's  opinion, 
needed  so  much  expurgation;  and  yet  one  couldn't  be 
unkind.  Peter  wished  very  much  that  Hilary  would 
get  rid  of  Vyvian.  Vyvian  often  wrote  such  tosh; 
though  he  was  clever,  too.  Came  of  being  a  bounder, 
perhaps.  Peter  had  often  noticed  that  bounders  were 
apt  to  write  tosh,  even  clever  bounders.  Such  a  sensi- 
tive bounder,  too ;  that  made  it  extraordinarily  difficult 
to  edit  him  satisfactorily.  Decidedly  Hilary  ought  to 
get  rid  of  him,  gently  but  finally.  That  would  have  the 
added  advantage  of  freeing  Peter  from  the  obligation 
of  "  making  a  third "  with  him  and  Rhoda  Johnson. 
Also,  one  would  feel  safer;  one  didn't  really  trust 
Vyvian  not  to  be  doing  little  private  deals  of  his  own ; 
so  little,  in  fact,  did  one  trust  him  that  the  names  of 
dealers  were  rigorously  taboo  now  on  the  Gem. 

Peter  sighed  over  this  rather  tiresome  article  on  lace. 
He  wanted  to  be  finishing  one  of  his  own  on  well-heads ; 
and  then  he  wanted  to  go  out  with  Leslie  and  look  for 
stone  lions  for  Leslie's  gate-posts ;  and  then  he  and  Leslie 
were  going  to  dine  with  Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart. 
There  were  a  lot  of  jolly  things  to  be  done,  when  he 
had  finished  with  Vyvian's  lace. 

Peter  was  quite  enjoying  life  just  now ;  it  was  inter- 
esting trying  to  set  the  Gem  on  its  legs ;  there  were  im- 

123 


124  THE  LEE  SHORE 

mense  potentialities  in  the  Gem  now  that  toshery  with 
dealers  had  been  put  an  end  to.  And  to  be  allowed  to 
write  ad  infinitum  about  well-heads  or  anything  else 
was  simply  splendid. 

Peter  heard,  with  a  small,  abstracted  part  of  his 
mind,  someone  talking  to  Hilary  in  the  hall.  The  low- 
toned  conversation  vaguely  worried  his  subconscious 
self;  he  wished  people  would  converse  more  audibly. 
But  probably  it  was  private.  .  .  .  Peter  suddenly 
frowned  irritably  and  sat  upright,  biting  at  his  pen. 
He  was  annoyed  with  himself.  It  was  so  impertinent, 
so  much  the  sort  of  thing  he  most  disliked,  to  be  spec- 
ulating, as  he  had  suddenly  found  himself  doing,  on  the 
nature  of  another  person's  private  business.  Had  he 
come  to  that?  It  must  be  some  emanation  from  that 
silly,  syrupy  article  of  Vyvian's;  Vyvian,  Peter  felt 
sure,  would  have  towards  a  private  conversation  just 
such  an  attitude  that  he  had  detected  in  himself.  He 
settled  himself  to  his  job  again,  and  made  a  rather  sav- 
age excision  of  two  long  sentences. 

The  outer  door  shut.  Peter  heard  Hilary's  steps 
crossing  the  hall  alone,  rather  slowly,  till  they  stopped 
at  the  door  of  the  saloon.  Hilary  came  in;  his  head 
was  thoughtfully  bent,  and  he  didn't  at  first  see  Peter 
at  the  table  in  a  corner.  When  he  did  see  him,  he 
started  violently.  Hilary  had  such  weak  nerves;  he 
was  always  starting  for  no  reason. 

Peter  said,  "  Things  going  on  all  right  ? "  and 
Hilary  said,  "Yes,  quite,"  and  stood  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, his  mobile  face  flickering  nervously,  as  it  did 
when  he  was  tired  or  embarrassed. 

"  I  was  looking  for  Peggy,"  he  added,  and  went  out. 
He  had  forgotten,  apparently,  that  Peggy  had  told  them 
an  hour  ago  that  she  was  going  shopping  and  would  be 
out  all  the  afternoon. 


THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE  125 

Peter  sat  quite  still  in  his  chair  and  bit  his  pen. 
From  his  expression,  Mrs.  Johnson  might  have  in- 
ferred that  he  had  been  in  the  Cathedral  again,  smell- 
ing at  the  choky  incense,  and  had  got  "  funny  feelin's  " 
within.  They  were  like  the  nauseating  reminiscence 
of  an  old  sickness.  He  tried  to  ignore  them.  He  said 
to  himself,  "  I'm  an  ass.  I'm  a  suspicious,  low-minded 
ass." 

But  he  was  somehow  revolted  by  the  thought  of  go- 
ing on  with  the  work  for  "  The  Gem  "  just  then.  He 
was  glad  when  Leslie  called  to  fetch  him  out. 

Leslie  said,  "  What's  the  matter,  my  son  ?  " 

Leslie  had,  with  all  his  inapprehensiveness  of  things, 
an  extraordinary  amount  of  discernment  of  people;  he 
could  discern  feelings  that  had  no  existence.  Or,  if 
they  had  any  existence  in  this  case,  they  must  have  been 
called  into  it  by  Vyvian's  sugary  periods.  Peter  con- 
ceded that  to  that  extent  he  ailed. 

"  A  surfeit  of  Vyvian.  Let's  come  out  and  take  the 
air  and  look  for  little  stone  lions." 

Leslie  was  restful  and  refreshing,  with  his  direct  pur- 
poses and  solid  immobility.  You  could  be  of  use  to 
Leslie,  because  he  had  a  single  eye;  he  knew  what  he 
wanted,  and  requested  you  to  obtain  it  for  him.  That 
was  simple;  he  didn't  make  your  task  impossible  by 
suddenly  deciding  that  after  all  he  didn't  really  want 
what  you  were  getting  for  him.  He  was  a  stable  man, 
and  perhaps  it  is  only  the  stable  who  are  really  suscepti- 
ble of  help,  thought  Peter  vaguely. 

At  seven  o'clock  Peter  and  Leslie  went  to  the  Ca* 
delle  Gemme.  They  found  Cheriton  there.  Cheriton 
was  talking  when  they  arrived,  in  his  efficient,  decisive, 
composed  business  tones.  Lord  Evelyn  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room,  his  fine,  ringed  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  back.  He  looked-  extraordinarily  agitated; 


126  THE  LEE  SHORE 

his  delicate  face  was  flushed  crimson.  Denis  was  lying 
back  in  a  low  chair,  characteristically  at  ease. 

When  Leslie  and  Peter  came  in,  Cheriton  stopped 
speaking,  and  Lord  Evelyn  stopped  pacing,  and  absolute 
silence  momentarily  fell. 

Then  Denis  gave  his  pleasant,  casual  "  Hullo." 

Cheriton's  silence  continued.  But  Lord  Evelyn's 
did  not.  Lord  Evelyn,  very  tall  and  thin,  and  swaying 
to  and  fro  on  his  heels,  looked  at  Peter,  turning  redder 
than  before ;  and  Peter  turned  red  too,  and  gave  a  little 
apprehensive,  unhappy  sigh,  because  he  knew  that  the 
fat  was  at  last  in  the  fire. 

There  ensued  an  uncomfortable  scene,  such  as  may 
readily  be  imagined. 

Lord  Evelyn  said,  and  his  sweet  voice  quavered  dis- 
tressingly up  and  down,  "  I  suppose  it's  been  a  good 
joke.  But  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  you,  Peter 
Margerison;  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  you.  Of 
your  brother  I  say  nothing;  it's  a  dishonest  world,  and 
he's  like  the  rest,  and  I  can't  say  he  ever  gave  me  any 
reason  to  trust  him,  so  I've  myself  to  blame.  But  you 

—  I  did  trust  you.     I  thought  you  were  a  nice  boy, 
and  cared  too  much  for  nice  things  to  lie  about  them." 
He  broke  off,  and  looked  round  the  room  —  at  the  Diana 
and  Actaeon,  at  the  Siena  chalice,  at  all  the  monstrous 
collection.     They  weren't  nearly  all  monstrous,  either 

—  not   even   most  —  but   he   didn't  know  that;   they 
might  be  for  all  he  could  tell.     He  looked  at  them  all 
with  the  same  bewildered,  hurt,  inimical  eyes,  and  it 
was  that  which  gave  Peter  his  deepest  stab  of  pitiful 
pain. 

"  You've  made  a  fool  of  me  between  you,"  said  Lord 
Evelyn,  and  suddenly  sat  down,  as  if  very  tired.  Leslie 
sat  down  too,  ponderous  and  silent  in  the  shadowed 
background.  But  Peter  remained  standing  before  them 


THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE  127 

all,  his  head  a  little  bent,  his  eyes  on  Denis  Urquhart's 
profile.  He  was  wondering  vaguely  if  Denis  would  say 
anything,  and  if  so  what  it  would  be. 

Still  looking  at  Denis,  he  made  foolish  apologies 
because  he  was  always  polite. 

"  I'm  frightfully  sorry  .  .  .  I've  been  frightfully 
sorry  all  along.  ..." 

Lord  Evelyn  lifted  a  white  hand,  waving  his  ab- 
surdities contemptuously  aside. 

"  All  along !  Oh,  I  see.  At  least  you're  honest  now ; 
you  don't  attempt  to  deny  that  you've  known  all  about 
it,  then."  There  was  perhaps  a  fresh  ring  of  bitterness 
in  his  voice,  as  if  some  last  faint  hope  had  been  killed 
by  Peter's  words. 

Cheriton,  whose  eyes  were  studying  the  floor,  lifted 
them  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  glanced  at  Denis,  who 
was  lighting  a  cigarette  and  didn't  look  at  him. 

"  You  knew  that  first  evening,  when  you  looked  at 
the  things,"  said  Lord  Evelyn,  half  a  question  still  in 
his  querulous  voice.  "  You  saw  through  them  at  once, 
of  course.  Anyone  but  a  blind  fool  would  have,  I've 
no  manner  of  doubt.  Cheriton  here  says  he  saw  you 
see  through  them." 

Peter  stammered  over  it.  "I  —  I  —  knew  they 
weren't  much." 

Lord  Evelyn  turned  to  Cheriton  whose  face  was  still 
bent  down  as  if  he  didn't  much  like  the  scene  now  he 
had  brought  it  about. 

"  You  were  right,  as  usual,  Jim.  And  Denis  was 
wrong.  Denis,  you  know,"  he  added  to  Peter,  "  was 
inclined  to  put  your  morals  above  your  intelligence. 
He  said  you  couldn't  have  known.  Cheriton  told  him 
he  was  sure  you  had.  It  seems  Cheriton  was  right." 

It  seemed  that  he  was.  Peter  imagined  that 
Cheriton  would  always  be  right. 


128  THE  LEE  SHORE 

After  a  moment's  silence  Peter  gathered  that  they 
were  all  waiting  to  hear  if  he  had  anything  to  say  about 
it.  He  hadn't  much,  but  he  might  as  well  say  it,  such 
as  it  was. 

"  It  won't  make  much  difference,  of  course,"  he  be- 
gan, and  his  voice  sounded  odd  and  small  and  tired 
in  the  great  room,  "  but  I  think  I  should  like  you  to 
know  that  all  this  stopped  three  weeks  ago.  Hilary  — 
we  —  decided  then  to  —  to  give  it  up,  and  run  l  The 
Gem '  on  different  lines  in  future.  We  couldn't  easily 
undo  the  past  — •  but  —  but  there's  been  nothing  of  the 
sort  since  then,  and  we  didn't  mean  there  to  be  again. 
Oh,  I  know  that  doesn't  make  much  difference,  of 
course.  .  .  ." 

The  only  difference  that  mattered  was  that  Denis 
frowned.  Incidentally  —  only  that  didn't  matter  — 
Cheriton  laughed  curtly,  and  Lord  Evelyn  wearily  said, 
"  Oh,  stop  lying,  stop  lying.  I'm  so  unutterably  tired 
of  your  lies.  .  .  .  You  think  we  don't  know  that  your 
brother  accepted  a  bribe  this  very  afternoon.  .  .  . 
Tell  him,  Jim." 

So  Jim  told  him.  He  told  him  shortly,  and  in  plain 
words,  and  not  as  if  he  was  pleased  with  his  triumph  in 
skilful  detection,  which  he  no  doubt  was. 

"  I  rather  wanted  to  sift  this  business,  Margerison, 
as  I  had  suspected  for  a  good  while  more  than  I  could 
prove.  So  to-day  I  sent  a  man  to  your  brother,  com- 
missioning him  to  pretend  to  be  an  art-dealer  and  offer 
a  sum  of  money  for  the  insertion  in  '  The  Gem '  of  an 
appreciative  notice  of  some  spurious  objects.  As  per- 
haps you  are  aware,  the  offer  was  accepted.  ...  It 
may  seem  to  you  an  underhand  way  of  getting  evidence 
—  but  the  case  was  peculiar." 

He  didn't  look  at  Peter;  his  manner,  though  dis- 
tant, was  not  now  unfriendly;  perhaps,  having  gained 


THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE  129 

his  object  and  sifted  the  business,  there  was  room  for 
compassion.  It  was  a  pity  that  Peter  had  made  things 
worse  by  that  last  lie,  though. 

"  I  see,"  said  Peter.     "  It's  all  very  complete." 

And  then  he  laughed,  as  he  always  did  when  dis- 
asters were  so  very  complete  as  to  leave  no  crevice  of 
escape  to  creep  through. 

"You  laugh,"  said  Lord  Evelyn,  and  rose  from  his 
chair,  trembling  a  little.  "  You  laugh.  It's  been  an 
admirable  joke,  hasn't  it  ?  And  you  always  had  plenty 
of  sense  of  humour." 

Peter  didn't  hear  him.  He  wasn't  laughing  any 
more;  he  was  looking  at  Denis,  who  had  never  looked 
at  him  once,  but  sat  smoking  with  averted  face. 

"  Shall  I  go  now  ? "  said  Peter.  "  There  isn't  much 
more  to  say,  is  there  ?  And  what  there  is,  perhaps  you 
will  tell  us  to-morrow.  ...  It  seems  so  silly  to  say  one 
is  sorry  about  a  thing  like  this  —  but  I  am,  you  know, 
horribly.  I  have  been  all  along,  ever  since  I  found  out. 
You  think  that  must  be  a  lie,  because  I  didn't  tell. 
But  things  are  so  mixed  and  difficult  —  and  it's  not  a 
lie."  He  was  looking  at  Lord  Evelyn  now,  at  the  deli- 
cate, working  face  that  stabbed  at  his  pity  and  shame. 
After  all,  it  was  Lord  Evelyn,  not  Denis,  whom  they 
had  injured  and  swindled  and  fooled;  one  must  re- 
member that.  To  Lord  Evelyn  he  made  his  further 
feeble  self-exculpation.  "  And,  you  know,  I  did  really 
think  Hilary  had  dropped  it  weeks  ago;  he  said  he 
would.  And  that's  not  a  lie,  either."  But  he  believed 
they  all  thought  it  was,  and  a  silly  one  at  that. 

It  was  Lord  Evelyn  who  laughed  now,  with  his  high, 
scornful  titter. 

"  You  and  your  sorrow !  I've  no  doubt  your  brother 
will  be  sorry  too,  when  he  hears  the  news.  I  may  tell 
you  that  he'll  have  very  good  reason  to  be.  ...  Yes, 


I3o  THE  LEE  SHORE 

by  all  means  go  now  —  unless  you'd  like  to  stay  and 
dine,  which  I  fancy  would  be  carrying  the  joke  too  far 
even  for  you.  .  .  .  Will  you  stay  one  moment,  though  ? 
There's  a  little  ceremony  to  be  performed." 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  took  the  Sienese  chalice  be- 
tween his  hands,  holding  it  gingerly  for  a  moment  as 
if  it  had  been  some  unclean  thing ;  then  he  dashed  it  on 
to  the  marble  floor  and  it  lay  in  splinters  about  his  feet. 
He  took  up  the  pair  of  vases  next  it,  one  in  each  hand 
(they  happened  to  be  of  great  value),  and  threw  them 
too  among  the  splinters ;  he  had  cleared  the  shelf  of  all 
its  brittle  objects  before  Leslie,  who  had  sat  motionless 
in  the  background  until  now,  rose  and  laid  a  heavy  hand 
on  his  arm. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Leslie  tranquilly,  "  don't  be 
melodramatic.  And  don't  give  the  servants  so  much 
trouble  and  possible  injury  when  they  do  the  room  to- 
morrow. If  you  want  to  part  with  your  goods,  may  I 
ask  to  be  allowed  to  inspect  them  with  a  view  to  pur- 
chase ?  Some  of  them,  as  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  are 
of  considerable  intrinsic  value,  and  I  should  be  happy 
to  be  allowed  to  buy." 

Lord  Evelyn  looked  at  the  man  of  commerce  with  dis- 
tant contempt. 

"  As  you  please,  sir.  I've  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peter 
Margerison  will  be  equally  happy  to  give  you  his  val- 
uable advice  in  the  business.  He  is  your  counsellor  in 
.these  matters,  isn't  he.  An  excellent  adviser,  of  sound 
judgment  and  most  disinterested  honesty !  " 

He  bowed  to  Peter,  who  took  it  as  a  dismissal,  and 
said  "  Good  night." 

Denis,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  nodded  in 
his  casual  way,  neither  hostile  nor  friendly,  but  gentle 
and  indifferent.  You  couldn't  make  Denis  seem  angry, 
or  hurt,  or  agitated  in  any  way  whatever.  He  had  al- 


THE  FAT  IN  THE  FIRE  131 

ways  the  air  of  reserving  his  opinion ;  and  he  extremely 
disliked  scenes.  To  be  present  at  this  one  must  have 
been  painful  to  him.  Peter,  who  knew  him  so  well, 
knew  that.  He  liked  things  to  go  easily  and  smoothly 
always.  He  had  winced  at  the  crash  of  glass  on  marble ; 
it  seemed  to  him  in  such  bad  taste.  This,  no  doubt, 
was  his  attitude  towards  the  whole  business ;  towards  the 
Magerisons'  behaviour,  Cheriton's  exposure  of  it,  and 
this  final  naked,  shameful  scene  of  accusation  and  con- 
fession. 

Peter  was  realising  this  as  he  put  on  his  coat  in  the 
hall,  when  the  door  he  had  shut  behind  him  was  opened, 
and  steps  followed  him.  He  started  and  faced  round, 
a  hope  leaping  in  his  face.  The  swift  dying  of  it  left 
him  rather  pale. 

Leslie  said,  "  I'm  coming  too." 

It  was  good  of  Leslie,  thought  Peter  dully,  and  not 
caring  in  the  least.  He  said,  "  No,  stay  and  dine. 
Really,  I'd  like  you  to.  ...  We'll  talk  to-morrow." 

Leslie  put  on  his  overcoat  and  said  to  the  footman, 
"  Call  a  gondola,"  and  the  footman  stood  on  the  steps 
and  cried  "  Poppe  "  till  a  poppe  came ;  then  they  swung 
away  down  a  rose-flushed  water-street  with  the  after- 
glow in  their  eyes. 

Leslie  was  restful ;  he  didn't  bother  one.  He  merely 
said,  "  We'll  dine  to-night  at  Luigi's." 

It  was  not  until  they  had  done  so,  and  were  having 
coffee'  outside,  that  Peter  said,  "  We'll  have  to  leave 
Venice,  of  course,  directly  we  can." 

"  You  too  ?  "  said  Leslie.     "  You  go  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  go  with  them,"  said  Peter.  "  Well,  I  can't  well 
stay  here,  can  I.  And  we  may  as  well  stick  together 
—  a  family  party.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  haven't  a  notion 
what  Hilary  will  do  to  live  now.  I  can  go  into  business 
of  sorts.  Hilary  can't;  he'd  hate  it  so.  Hilary's  not 


132  THE  LEE  SHORE 

business-like,  you  know.  !N"or  is  Peggy.  I  couldn't 
trust  them  by  themselves;  they'd  tumble  into  some- 
thing and  get  broken.  They  need  my  common  sense  to 
sustain  them." 

Leslie  said,  "  What's  the  matter  with  your  own  line 
of  life,  that  you  want  to  chuck  it  ? " 

Peter  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  It's  chucked  me,"  he  said.  "  Violently  —  with  a 
smash.  You  don't  suppose  anyone  will  hire  me  again 
to  buy  their  things  for  them  ?  There'll  be  something  of 
a  crab  on  the  Margerison  family  in  future.  It's  going 
to  be  made  very  public,  you  know,  this  business;  I 
gathered  that.  We  shall  be  —  rather  notorious,  in  a 
very  few  days." 

Leslie  said,  after  a  moment,  "  I've  hired  you  to  buy 
my  things  for  me.  Are  you  going  to  chuck  me  ?  " 

And  Peter,  leaning  his  forehead  on  his  hand  as  if 
tired,  returned  beneath  his  breath,  "  Don't  be  good  to 
me,  please,  just  now.  And  you  must  see  I've  got  to 
chuck  it  all  —  all  that  side  of  things.  We  must  do 
something  quite  new,  Hilary  and  I.  We  —  we've 
spoiled  this." 

After  a  pause,  Leslie  said  gently,  afraid  of  blunder- 
ing, "  You  stick  together,  you  and  your  brother  ?  You 
go  through  it  together  —  all  the  way  ?  " 

Peter  answered  hopelessly,  "  All  the  way.  We're  in 
it  together,  and  we  must  get  out  together,  as  best  we 
can,"  and  Leslie  accepted  that,  and  asked  no  further 
question. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    LOSS    OF    A    PEOFESSION 

PETER  went  back  to  the  Palazzo  Amadeo  and  said  to 
Hilary,  who  was  writing  an  article  for  "  The  Gem  "  in 
the  saloon,  "  I  wouldn't  go  on  with  that,  Hilary.  It's 
no  use." 

The  flatness  of  his  voice,  the  pallor  of  his  face,  startled 
Hilary  and  Peggy. 

Peggy  said,  "  You're  tired  to  death,  child.  Take  the 
big  chair." 

Hilary  said,  "  How  do  you  mean,  no  use  ?  " 

And  Peter  told  him.  While  he  did  so,  he  stood  at 
the  window,  looking  down  at  the  canal  between  the 
green  shutters  that  swung  ajar,  and  did  not  look  at 
Hilary's  face. 

It  was  an  impossible  position  for  Hilary,  so  utterly 
impossible  that  it  was  no  use  trying  to  make  the  best  of 
it ;  one  could  only  look  away,  and  get  through  it  quickly. 

Peter  didn't  say  much.  He  only  said,  "  We've  been 
found  out.  That  man  who  came  to  you  this  afternoon 
was  a  spy  sent  by  Cheriton.  He  reported  the  result  of 
his  interview  with  you,  and  Lord  Evelyn  knows  all 
about  everything.  Cheriton  suspected  from  the  first, 
you  see.  .  .  .  From  what  Lord  Evelyn  said,  I  gather 
he  means  to  prosecute.  .  .  .  He  is  ...  very  angry  in- 
deed. .  .  They  all  are.  .  .  ." 

On  the  last  statement  Peter's  voice  sank  a  little  in 
pitch,  so  that  they  hardly  heard  it.  But  the  last  state- 
ment mattered  to  no  one  but  Peter. 

Hilary  had  got  up  sharply  at  the  first  words,  and 

133 


I34  THE  LEE  SHORE 

stood  very  still  to  listen,  letting  out  one  long  breath  of 
weary  despair.  Peggy  came  and  stood  close  to  him,  and 
took  one  slim  white  hand  in  her  large  kind  ones,  and 
gently  held  it.  The  fat  was  indeed  in  the  fire.  Poor  old 
Hilary!  How  he  would  feel  it!  Peggy  divined  that 
what  stung  Hilary  most  deeply  at  the  moment  was 
Peter's  discovery  of  his  faithlessness. 

It  was  of  that  that  his  first  shamed,  incoherent  words 
were. 

"  What  was  I  to  do  ?  How  could  I  break  abruptly 
with  the  old  methods,  as  you  suggested?  It  had  to 
come  gradually.  You  know  nothing  of  business, 
Peter  —  nothing."  His  voice  ran  up  the  scale  of  pro- 
testing self-defence. 

"  Nothing,"  Peter  admitted  drearily.  Hilary's 
shame  before  him  could  hardly  now  add  to  the  badness 
of  the  situation,  as  it  had  once  done;  the  badness  of 
situations  has  a  limit,  and  this  one  had  reached  its 
limit  some  three  hours  since,  just  before  he  had  laughed 
in  Lord  Evelyn's  drawing-room. 

"  Oh,"  said  Peter,  very  tired  suddenly,  "  never  mind 
me;  what  does  that  matter?  The  point  is  ...  well, 
you  see  the  point,  naturally." 

Yes,  Hilary  saw  the  point.  With  a  faint  groan  he 
ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room  in  agitation. 

He  said,  "  That  brute  Cheriton.  .  .  .  An  execrable 
bounder ;  I  always  knew  it.  What  right  had  he  ?  ... 
It's  too  horrible,  too  abominable.  .  .  .  Just  when  we 
were  doing  our  best  to  get  the  thing  onto  straight 
lines.  .  .  ."  He  wheeled  about  and  paced  back  again, 
with  quick,  uneven  steps.  Between  him  and  the 
motionless  Peter,  Peggy  stood,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other.  Her  merry  eyes  were  quite  grave  now. 
The  situation  was  certainly  appalling. 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  PROFESSION      135 

"  We  must  leave  Venice,"  said  Peggy,  on  a  sigh. 
That  seemed,  certainly,  the  only  thing  to  be  done. 

Hilary  groaned  again. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  what  are  we  let  in  for  ?  What  will  be 
the  result,  if  he  prosecutes?  It  may  be  utter  ruin. 
...  I  know  nothing  of  these  things.  Of  course,  in. 
justice  nothing  could  be  done  to  us  —  for,  after  all, 
what  harm  have  we  done?  Anyone  may  insert  adver- 
tisements for  pay,  and  it  only  amounted  to  that.  .  .  . 
But  justice  isn't  taken  into  much  account  in  the  law- 
courts.  ...  It  is  a  horrible,  cast-iron  system  —  the 
relic  of  a  barbarous  age.  ...  I  don't  know  what  we 
mayn't  be  in  for,  or  how  we  shall  come  out  of  it.  You 
don't  know  either,  Peter ;  you  know  nothing  of  law  — 
nothing.  It  mustn't  come  into  court ;  that  is  unthink- 
able. We  will  make  full  apologies  —  any  restitution 
within  our  power  that  Lord  Evelyn  demands.  ...  I 
shall  go  there;  I  shall  see  him  about  it,  and  appeal 
to  his  better  feelings.  He  has  been  a  friend  of  mine. 
He  has  always  been  good  to  you,  Peter.  The  memory 
of  your  mother.  .  .  .  Appeal  to  that.  You  must  go  to 
him  and  see  what  can  be  done.  Yes,  it  had  better  be  you ; 
he  has  a  kinder  feeling  for  you,  I  believe,  than  for  me." 

"  He  has  no  kind  feeling  for  me,"  said  Peter  dully. 
"  He  is  more  annoyed  with  me  than  with  you." 

Hilary  jerked  his  head  impatiently. 

"  Nonsense.  You  want  to  shirk ;  you  want  to  leave 
me  to  get  out  of  the  mess  for  myself.  Oh,  of  course, 
you're  not  legally  involved;  I  am  aware  of  that;  you 
can  leave  the  sinking  ship  if  you  choose,  and  save 
yourself." 

Peggy  said,  "  Don't  be  ridiculous,  darling.  Peter's 
doing  his  best  for  us,  as  he  always  has,"  and  came  and 
stood  at  her  brother-in-law's  side,  kind  and  big  and 
comforting,  with  a  hand  on  his  arm. 


136  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Hilary  went  on  querulously,  "  I'm  asking  Peter  to 
do  a  simple  thing  —  to  use  his  friendship  with  the 
Urquharts  to  help  me  out  of  this  mess.  If  you  don't 
want  to  see  Lord  Evelyn,  Peter,  you  can  go  to  Denis. 
He's  a  friend  of  yours ;  he's  —  he's  your  kind  of  step- 
brother. You  can  easily  persuade  him  to  get  the 
thing  hushed  up.  You've  always  pretended  that  he 
was  a  friend  of  yours.  Go  and  see  him,  then,  for 
heaven's  sake,  and  help  us  all  out  of  this  miserable  pre- 
dicament." 

Peter  was  still  silent,  staring  down  at  the  dark  rib- 
bon of  shining  water  that  lapped  against  two  old  brick 
walls,  a  shut  lane  full  of  stars. 

Peggy,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  said  gently,  "  Oh, 
Peter'll  do  his  best  for  us,  of  course  he  will,  won't 
you,  Peter." 

Peter  sighed  very  faintly  into  the  dark  night. 

"  I  will  do  anything  I  can,  naturally.  It  won't  be 
much,  you  know." 

"  You  will  go  to  the  Urquharts  to-morrow  morning, 
and  appeal  to  them  ?  "  said  Hilary. 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter.     «  I  will  do  that." 

Hilary  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  flung  himself 
into  a  chair. 

"  Thanks,  Peter.  I  believe  that  is  the  best  we  can 
do.  You  will  persuade  them  at  least  to  be  just,  not 
to  push  the  matter  to  unfair  extremes.  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
God,  what  a  life !  "  His  beautiful,  unhappy  face  was 
hidden  in  his  hands;  he  shuddered  from  head  to  foot, 
feeling  horribly  sick.  The  Margerison  organism  was 
sensitive. 

Peggy,  bending  over  him,  drew  caressing  fingers 
through  his  dark  hair  and  said,  "  Go  to  bed,  you 
poor  old  dear,  and  don't  worry  any  more  to-night. 
Worry  won't  help  now,  will  it  ?  " 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  PROFESSION       137 

"Bed?"  said  Hilary.  "Bed?  What's  the  use  of 
that?  I  shouldn't  sleep  a  wink.  I  have  a  frightful 
head,  and  I  must  go  and  find  Vyvian  and  tell  him." 

Peggy  sniffed.  "  Much  Vyvian'll  care !  He's  been 
in  bad  odour  all  his  life,  I  should  fancy.  One  more 
row  won't  bother  him  much.  I  wish  it  would ;  it  would 
be  almost  worth  while  to  be  upset  if  Guy  Vyvian  was 
going  to  be  upset  too  —  the  waster.  Well,  I  wonder 
anyhow  will  this  show  that  silly  little  Khoda  what  sort 
of  a  creature  she's  been  making  a  golden  calf  of.  ... 
Well,  go  and  wake  Vyvian,  then,  darling,  and  then  come 
and  tell  me  what  he  said  to  it.  Peter,  you're  dropping 
to  sleep  as  you  stand." 

Peter  went  to  bed.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  any- 
thing to  stay  up  for,  and  bed  is  a  comforting  friend 
on  these  occasions.  Hilary  had  a  perverse  tendency 
to  sit  up  all  night  when  the  worst  had  happened  and 
he  had  a  frightful  head;  Peter's  way  with  life  was 
more  amenable;  he  always  took  what  comfort  was 
offered  him.  Bed  is  a  good  place;  it  folds  protecting, 
consoling  arms  about  you,  and  gives  at  best  oblivion, 
at  worst  a  blessed  immunity  from  action. 

In  the  morning,  about  eleven  o'clock,  Peter  went 
to  the  Ca*  delle  Gemme.  That  had  to  be  done,  so  it 
was  no  use  delaying.  He  asked  for  Lord  Evelyn 
Urquhart,  and  supposed  that  the  servant  who  showed 
him  in  was  astonished  at  his  impudence.  However, 
he  was  permitted  to  wait  in  the  reception-room  while 
the  servant  went  to  acquaint  Lord  Evelyn  with  his 
presence.  He  waited  some  time,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  big  room,  looking  at  some  splinters  of  glass  and 
china  which  had  been  left  on  the  marble  floor,  forming 
on  his  tongue  what  he  was  going  to  say.  He  could 
form  nothing  that  was  easy  to  say;  honestly  he  didn't 
know  whether,  when  the  door  should  open  and  that 


138  THE  LEE  SHORE 

tall,  elegant,  fastidious  figure  should  walk  in,  he  would 
find  himself  able  to  say  anything  at  all.  He  feared 
he  might  only  grow  hot,  and  stammer,  and  slink  out. 
But  he  pulled  himself  together ;  he  must  do  his  best ; 
it  was  quite  necessary.  He  would  try  to  say,  "  Lord 
Evelyn,  I  know  it  is  abominably  impertinent  of  me 
to  come  into  your  house  like  this.  Will  you  forgive 
me  this  once?  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  is  there  any 
consideration  whatever,  any  sort  of  reparation  my 
brother  and  I  can  make,  which  will  be  of  any  use  as 
amends  for  what  we  did?  If  so,  of  course  we  should 
be  grateful  for  the  chance.  .  .  ." 

That  was  what  he  would  try  to  say.  And  what  he 
would  mean  was :  "  Will  you  let  Hilary  off  ?  Will 
you  let  him  just  go  away  into  obscurity,  without 
further  disgrace?  Isn't  he  disgraced  enough  already? 
Because  you  are  kind,  and  because  you  have  been  fond 
of  me,  and  because  I  ask  you,  will  you  do  this 
much  ? " 

And  what  the  answer  would  be,  Peter  had  not  the 
faintest  idea.  To  him  personally  the  answer  was  in- 
different. From  his  point  of  view,  the  worst  had 
already  happened,  and  no  further  disgrace  could  affect 
him  much.  But  Hilary  desperately  cared,  so  he  must 
do  his  best;  he  must  walk  into  the  fire  and  wrest  out 
of  it  what  he  could. 

And  at  last  the  door  opened,  and  Denis  Urquhart 
came  in. 

He  was  just  as  usual,  leisurely  and  fair  and  tranquil, 
only  usually  he  smiled  at  Peter,  and  to-day  he  did 
not  smile.  One  might  have  fancied  under  his  tran- 
quillity a  restrained  nervousness.  He  did  not  shake 
hands;  but  then  Peter  and  he  never  did  shake  hands 
when  they  met. 

He  said,   "  Sit   down,  won't  you.     My  uncle  isn't 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  PROFESSION      139 

available  just  now,  so  I  have  come  instead.  .  .  .  You 
have  something  to  say  to  him,  haven't  you  ?  " 

He  sat  down  himself,  and  waited,  looking  at  the 
splinters  of  glass  on  the  floor. 

Peter  stood,  and  his  breath  came  shortly.  Yes,  he 
had  something  to  say  to  Lord  Evelyn,  but  nothing  to 
Lord  Evelyn's  nephew.  He  grew  hot  and  cold,  and 
stammered  something,  he  did  not  know  what. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Denis,  in  his  soft,  casual  voice,  politely 
expectant. 

Peter,  who  did  not,  after  all,  lack  a  certain  desperate 
courage,  walked  into  the  fire,  with  braced  will.  It 
was  bad  that  Denis  should  be  brought  into  the  business ; 
but  it  had  to  be  gone  through,  all  the  same. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  ...  to  know  .  .  .  what 
Lord  Evelyn  is  going  to  do  about  this  matter."  He 
jerked  out  the  words  like  stones  from  a  catapult. 

Denis  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  disliked  being 
dragged  into  this  revolting  affair;  but  he  had  had  to 
come  and  see  Peter,  since  his  uncle  refused  and  he 
could  not  let  Peter  go  unseen  away.  He  didn't  want 
to  see  him  ever  again,  since  he  had  behaved  as  he  had 
behaved,  but  neither  did  he  want  to  violate  the  laws 
of  courtesy  and  hospitality. 

"  I  don't  quite  know,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

"  Is  he  ...  does  he  intend  to  prosecute  ? "  Peter 
asked,  blushing. 

Denis  answered  to  that  at  once :  "  I  shall  certainly 
do  my  best  to  prevent  anything  of  the  sort.  I  don't 
think  he  will.  At  present  he  is  still  very  angry;  but 
I  think  when  he  cools  down  he  will  see  reason.  To 
prosecute  would  be  to  make  himself  absurd;  he  will 
see  that,  no  doubt.  He  values  his  reputation  as  an 
art  connoisseur,  you  see."  At  the  faint,  cool  irony 
in  the  words,  Peter  winced. 


140  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Of  course,"  went  on  Denis,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
"  your  brother  will  leave  Venice  at  once,  I  suppose  ? " 
He  passed  Peter  his  cigarette  box;  Peter  refused  it. 

"Naturally.  We  mean  to  leave  as  soon  as  we  can. 
.  .  .  Thank  you,  that  is  all  I  had  to  say.  .  .  .  Good- 
bye." 

Denis  got  up,  and  Peter  saw  relief  through  the  mask 
of  politeness. 

"  Good-bye.  ...  I  needn't  say  how  sorry  I  am  about 
all  this.  It  was  hard  lines  on  you  being  brought 
into  it." 

He  was  making  a  transparent  effort  after  friendli- 
ness; Peter  almost  smiled  at  it.  Poor  Denis;  what 
a  relief  it  would  be  to  him  when  the  disreputable 
Margerisons  were  off  the  scenes. 

Peter  paused  at  the  door  and  said,  in  a  low,  em- 
barrassed voice,  "  Would  you  mind  telling  Lord  Evelyn 
what  I  told  him  myself  last  night  —  that  I'm  horribly 
sorry  about  it  —  sorrier  than  I  have  ever  been  for 
anything.  ...  It  won't  make  any  difference  to  him, 
I  know  —  but  if  you  will  just  tell  him.  .  .  .  And  I'm 
sorry  it  happened  while  you  were  here,  too.  You've 
been  dragged  in.  ...  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Margerison."  Denis  was  grave,  em- 
barrassed, restrained,  and  not  unkind.  It  was  obvious 
that  he  had  nothing  to  say  about  it  all. 

Peter  left  the  Ca'  delle  Gemme. 

That  afternoon  Hilary  received  a  note  from  Lord 
Evelyn.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  Lord  Evelyn  had 
decided  not  to  bring  an  action,  on  the  understanding 
that  Hilary  and  his  brother  and  Vyvian  left  Venice 
at  once  and  discontinued  for  ever  the  profession  of 
artistic  advisers.  If  any  of  the  three  was  discovered 
engaging  again  in  that  business,  those  who  employed 
them  should  promptly  be  advised  of  their  antecedents. 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  PROFESSION       141 

They  were,  in  fact,  to  consider  themselves  warned  off 
the  turf.  There  was  also  to  be  a  paragraph  about  them 
in  the  English  art  papers. 

"  Well,"  was  Peggy's  comment,  "  it  hasn't  been  such 
a  grand  trade  that  we  need  mind  much.  We'll  all  come 
back  to  England  and  keep  a  boarding-house  there  in- 
stead, and  you  shall  paint  the  great  pictures,  darling, 
and  have  ever  so  much  more  fun.  And  we'll  never 
need  to  see  that  Vyvian  again;  there's  fine  news  for 
the  babies,  anyhow.  And  I  will  be  relieved  to  get 
them  away  from  the  canals;  one  of  them  would  have 
been  surely  drowned  before  long.  In  London  they'll 
have  only  gutters." 

Hilary,  who  was  looking  tired  and  limp  after  a 
distressing  night  and  day,  said,  "  What  shall  you  do, 
Peter?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter.  "  I  must  find  some- 
thing, I  suppose.  Some  sort  of  work,  you  know." 
He  pronounced  the  word  gingerly,  distastefully,  as 
if  it  were  a  curious,  unwonted  one.  "  Perhaps  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  a  post  as  door-keeper  somewhere ;  in  some 
museum,  you  know,  or  perhaps  a  theatre,  or  the  White 
City.  I've  always  thought  that  might  be  amusing." 

"  You  wouldn't  earn  much  that  way,"  Hilary  said 
hopelessly. 

"  Need  one  earn  much  ? "  Peter  wondered ;  then 
remembered  how  exceedingly  little  Hilary  would  be 
earning,  and  that  perhaps  one  need,  because  of  the 
babies. 

"  Or  perhaps  I  can  get  taken  on  as  a  clerk  in  some 
business,"  he  amended.  "  Or  in  a  bank ;  only  I  don't 
believe  my  sums  or  manners  are  good  enough  for  a 
bank,  really.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  I  must  see  what  I  can 
squeeze  into.  Perhaps  Leslie  can  think  of  something. 
And  perhaps  the  Robinsons  will  interest  themselves 


142  THE  LEE  SHORE 

in  me,  though  they'll  be  even  more  disgusted  at  our 
downfall  than  they  were  when  I  took  up  my  profession, 
and  they  thought  that  perfectly  idiotic.  They  always 
do  think  we're  perfectly  idiotic,  and  now  they'll  know 
we're  something  worse.  But  they  may  help  me  to 
a  job,  if  I  bother  them  enough.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I'll  be 
one  of  your  boarders,  if  I  may." 

"  You  darling,"  said  Peggy,  beaming  at  him. 
"  It'll  give  the  house  quite  a  different  feeling  if  you're 
in  it.  And  how  delighted  the  babies  will  be.  I  believe 
we're  going  to  have  the  fine  time,  after  all,  in  spite  of 
this  bothersome  business.  Hurrah  for  London  and 
no  mosquitoes!  And  we'll  be  quite  near  a  Catholic 
church,  the  way  the  children'll  be  able  to  run  in  and 
out  as  they  do  here,  and  not  pick  up  heathen  customs. 
Why,  Hilary,  I'm  really  pleased !  " 

Peggy  was  splendid.  She  was  nearly  always  really 
pleased. 

They  started  for  England  a  week  later.  In  the 
course  of  that  week  two  things  happened.  One  was 
that  Leslie  gave  Peter  the  Berovieri  goblet  for  his  own. 

"  You've  got  to  take  it,"  he  said.  "  If  you  don't, 
I  shall  give  it  back  to  the  prince.  I've  no  right  to 
it;  I  can't  appreciate  it  properly.  Since  I  first  saw 
you  look  at  the  thing  I  knew  it  was  really  yours. 
Take  it  and  keep  it.  You  won't  let  me  do  anything 
else  for  you,  but  you  shall  let  me  do  that." 

Peter  looked  at  it  with  wistful  love.  His  fingers 
lingered  about  its  exquisiteness. 

"  It  will  break,"  he  said.  "  My  things  do  break. 
Break  and  get  lost,  and  go  with  the  dust.  Or  thieves 
will  break  in  and  steal  it.  I  shan't  be  able  to  keep 
it,  I  know ;  I'm  such  a  bad  hand  at  keeping  things." 

"Well,  'well,  have  a  try,"  said  Leslie.  So  Peter 
took  it  and  was  glad.  It  was  his  one  link  with  the 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  PROFESSION      143 

world  of  exquisiteness  and  new-burnished  joys  out  of 
which  he  was  being  thrust;  he  would  keep  it  if  he 
could. 

Leslie  also  said  that  he  could  get  him  a  place  in  a 
business,  if  he  really  wanted  one. 

"  I  shall  be  extremely  little  use,"  said  Peter. 

"  Extremely  little,"  Leslie  agreed.  "  You'd  much 
better  not  try.  But  if  you  must  you  must." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must,"  said  Peter. 

So  Leslie  wrote  letters  about  him,  and  secured  him 
a  humble  post  in  a  warehouse.  Leslie  was  not  going 
to  return  to  England  at  present.  He  was  going  a. 
tour  round  the  world.  Since  Peter  refused  to  accom- 
pany him,  he  went  alone. 

"  There's  no  one  else  I  can  fancy  hanging  round  me 
day  and  night,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  you,  Margery  " — 
the  nickname  fell  from  him  with  a  clumsy  pathos  — 
"  but  if  you  won't  you  won't.  I  shall  acquire  an 
abominable  collection  of  objects  without  you  to  guide 
me ;  but  that  can't  be  helped." 

The  other  thing  that  happened  was  that  Mrs.  Johnson 
fell  suddenly  ill  and  died.  Before  she  died,  she  talked 
to  Peter  about  Ehoda. 

"  It's  leaving  of  her  as  I  can't  bear,"  she  whispered. 
"  All  alone  and  unprotected  like.  I  can't  leave  her 
by  herself  in  this  heathen  country.  I  want  to  get  her 
back  to  England.  But  she's  got  no  relatives  there  as'll 
do  for  her;  none,  you  know,  as  I  should  care  to  trust 
her  to,  or  as  'ud  be  really  good  to  her.  And  I'm  afraid 
of  what'll  come  to  the  child  without  me;  I'm  afraid, 
Mr.  Peter.  That  man  —  it  gives  me  the  creeps  of 
nights  to  think  of  him  comin'  after  Rhoder  when  I'm 
gone.  I'm  just  frightened  as  he'll  get  her;  you  know 
what  Ehoder  is,  like  a  soft  wax  candle  that  gets  droopy 
and  gives  before  his  bold  look;  he  can  do  anythin' 


144  THE  LEE  SHORE 

with  her.  And  if  he  gets  her,  he  won't  be  good  to  her,  I 
know  that.  He'll  just  break  her  and  toss  her  away,  my 
little  gal.  Oh,  what  can  I  do,  Mr.  Peter,  to  save  that  ?  " 

She  was  in  great  pain;  drops  of  sweat  kept  gather- 
ing on  her  forehead  and  rolling  on  to  the  pillow. 
Peter  took  her  hand  that  picked  at  the  blanket. 

"  May  we  try  to  take  care  of  her  ?  "  he  gently  asked. 
"  If  she  will  come  and  stay  with  us,  in  London,  it 
would  be  better  than  being  alone  among  strangers, 
wouldn't  it?  She  could  get  work  near,  and  live  with 
us.  Peggy  is  fond  of  her,  you  know ;  we  all  are.  We 
would  try  to  make  her  as  happy  as  we  could." 

She  smiled  at  him,  between  laboured  breaths. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  Mr.  Peter.  I  somehow  thought 
as  how  you'd  be  good  to  my  little  gal.  .  .  .  You  are 
so  sympathetic  to  everyone  always.  .  .  .  Yes,  Rhoder 
shall  do  that;  I'll  have  her  promise.  And  that  man 
—  you'll  keep  him  off  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Peter.     "  I  will  do  my  very  best." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  oh,  dear  Lord,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson, 
"  the  pain !  " 

But  it  didn't  last  long,  for  she  died  that  night. 

And  four  days  later  the  boarding-house  was  broken 
up,  and  the  Margerison  family  and  Rhoda  Johnson 
left  Italy  together. 

Ehoda  was  very  quiet  and  still  and  white.  She 
was  terribly  alone,  for  her  mother  was  gone,  and  the 
man  she  loved  was  gone,  hurriedly,  without  a  word 
to  her.  There  remained  the  Margerisons;  Peter,  with 
his  friendly  smile  and  gentle  companionableness ; 
Hilary,  worried  and  weary  and  hardly  noticing  her 
unobtrusive  presence;  Silvio,  Caterina,  and  Illuminato 
sucking  gingerbread  and  tumbling  off  the  rack,  and 
Peggy?  on  whose  broad  shoulder  Ehoda  suddenly  laid 
her  head  and  wept,  all  through  the  Mont  Cenis  tunnel. 


CHAPTEK  XI 

THE    LOSS    OF   AN    IDEA 

PETER'S  room  was  the  smallest  and  highest  in  the 
boarding-house.  It  was  extremely  small  and  high,  and 
just  above  the  bed  was  a  ceiling  that  got  hot  through 
and  through  like  a  warming-pan,  so  that  the  room  in 
summer  was  like  a  little  oven  below.  What  air  there  was 
came  in  came  through  a  small  skylight  above  the  wash- 
stand  ;  through  this  also  came  the  rain  when  it  rained ; 
the  dirtiest  rain  Peter  had  ever  seen. 

It  was  not  raining  this  morning,  when  Peter,  after 
passing  a  very  warm  night,  heard  the  bells  beginning. 
A  great  many  bells  begin  on  Sunday  mornings  in  this 
part  of  London,  no  doubt  in  any  part  of  London,  but 
here  they  seem  particularly  loud.  The  boarding-house 
was  in  a  small  street  close  to  a  large  English  church 
and  a  small  Roman  church ;  and  the  English  church  had 
its  first  Mass  at  seven,  and  the  Roman  church  at  six, 
and  each  had  another  an  hour  later,  and  bells  rang  for 
all.  So  Peter  lay  and  listened. 

Sometimes  he  went  with  Hilary  and  Peggy  to  the 
Roman  Mass.  That  pleased  Peggy,  who  had  hopes  of 
some  day  converting  him.  And  occasionally  he  went 
alone  to  the  English  Mass,  and  he  liked  that  better,  on 
the  whole,  because  the  little  Roman  church  was  rather 
ugly.  Peter  didn't  think  he  would  ever  join  the  Roman 
church,  even  to  please  Peggy.  It  certainly  seemed  to 
him  in  some  ways  the  most  finely  expressive  of  the 
churches;  but  equally  certainly  it  often  expressed 
the  wrong  things,  and  (like  all  other  churches)  left 

145 


146  THE  LEE  SHORE 

whole  worlds  unexpressed.  And  so  much  of  its  ex- 
pression had  a  crudity.  ...  It  kept  saying  too  little 
and  too  much,  and  jarring. 

Anyhow,  this  morning  Peter,  who  had  a  headache 
after  his  warm  night,  lay  and  heard  the  bells  and 
thought  what  a  nice  day  Sunday  was,  with  no  office  to 
go  to.  Instead,  he  would  take  Rhoda  on  the  river  in 
the  morning,  and  go  and  see  Lucy  in  the  afternoon, 
and  probably  have  tea  there.  When  Peter  went  to  see 
Lucy  he  always  had  a  faint  hope  that  Urquhart  would 
perhaps  walk  in,  and  that  they  would  all  be  friendly 
and  happy  together  in  the  old  way,  for  one  afternoon. 
It  hadn't  happened  yet.  Peter  hadn't  seen  Urquhart 
since  they  had  left  Venice,  two  months  ago.  Sunday 
was  his  day  for  going  to  see  Lucy,  and  it  wasn't  Urqu- 
h  art's  day,  perhaps  because  Urquhart  was  so  often 
away  for  week-ends;  though  last  Sunday,  indeed,  he 
had  just  left  the  Hopes'  house  when  Peter  arrived. 

Lucy,  when  Peter  had  told  her  his  tale  of  dishonour 
two  months  ago,  had  said,  half  laughing  at  him,  "  How 
stupid  of  all  of  you !  "  She  hadn't  realised  quite  how 
much  it  mattered.  Lucy  judged  everything  by  a  queer, 
withdrawn  standard  of  her  own. 

Peter  had  agreed  that  it  had  been  exceedingly  stupid 
of  all  of  them.  Once,  since  then,  when  he  heard  that 
Urquhart  had  returned  and  had  seen  Lucy,  he  had 
asked  her,  "  Does  he  dislike  us  all  very  much  ?  Is  he 
quite  too  disgusted  to  want  to  see  me  again  ? " 

Lucy  had  wrinkled  her  forehead  over  it. 

"  He's  not  angry,"  she  had  said.  "  You  can  fancy, 
can't  you?  Merely  —  merely  .  .  ." 

"  Detached,"  said  Peter,  who  had  more  words,  and 
always  expressed  what  Lucy  meant;  and  she  nodded. 
"  Just  that,  you  know."  She  had  looked  at  him  wist- 
fully, hoping  he  wasn't  minding  too  horribly  much. 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  147 

"  It's  stupid  of  him,"  she  had  said,  using  her  favour- 
ite adjective,  and  had  added,  dubiously,  "  Come  and 
meet  him  sometime.  You  can't  go  on  like  this;  it's 
too  silly." 

Peter  had  shaken  his  head.  "  I  won't  till  he  wants 
to.  I  don't  want  to  bother  him,  you  see." 

"  He  does  want  to,"  Lucy  had  told  him.  "  Of  course 
he  does.  Only  he  thinks  you  don't.  That's  what's  so 
silly." 

They  had  left  it  there  for  the  present.  Some  day 
Peter  meant  to  walk  into  Denis's  rooms  and.  say, 
"  Don't  be  stupid.  This  can't  go  on."  But  the  day 
hadn't  come  yet.  If  it  had  been  Denis  who  had  done 
the  shady  thing  and  was  in  penury  and  dishonour 
thereby,  it  would  have  been  so  simple.  But  that  was 
inconceivable;  such  things  didn't  happen  to  Denis; 
and  as  it  was  it  was  not  simple. 

Peter  got  out  of  his  hot  bed  on  to  his  hot  floor,  and 
made  for  the  bathroom.  There  was  only  one  bath- 
room in  the  boarding-house,  but  there  was  no  great 
competition  for  it,  so  Peter  had  his  bath  in  peace,  and 
sang  a  tune  in  it  as  was  his  custom,  and  came  back  to 
his  hot  room  and  put  on  his  hot  clothes  (his  less  tidy 
clothes,  because  it  was  the  day  of  joy),  and  came  down 
to  breakfast  at  9 :25. 

Most  of  the  other  boarders  had  got  there  before  him. 
It  was  a  mixed  boarding-house,  and  contained  at  the 
moment  two  gentlemen  besides  Hilary  and  Peter,  and 
five  ladies  besides  Peggy  and  Ehoda.  They  were  on 
the  whole  a  happy  and  even  gay  society,  and  particu- 
larly on  Sundays. 

Peggy,  looking  up  from  the  tea-cups,  gave  Peter  a 
broad  smile,  and  Ehoda  gave  him  a  little  subdued  one, 
and  Peter  looked  pleased  to  see  everyone;  he  always 
did,  even  on  Mondays. 


148  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  I'm  sure  your  brother  hasn't  a  care  in  the  world," 
an  envious  lady  boarder  had  once  said  to  Peggy ;  "  he's 
always  so  happy-looking." 

This  was  the  lady  who  was  saying,  as  Peter  entered, 
"  And  my  mother's  last  words  were,  '  Find  Elizabeth 
Dean's  grave.'  Elizabeth  Dean  was  an  author,  you 
know  —  oh,  very  well  known,  I  believe.  She  treated 
my  mother  and  me  none  too  well;  didn't  stand  by  us 
when  she  should  have  —  but  we  won't  say  anything 
about  that  now.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  costly  funeral  — 
forty  pounds  and  eight  horses  —  and  my  mother  hadn't 
an  idea  where  she  was  laid.  So  she  said,  '  Find  Eliza- 
beth Dean's  grave/  just  like  that.  And  the  strange 
thing  was  that  in  the  first  churchyard  I  walked  into,  in 
a  little  village  down  in  Sussex,  there  was  a  tombstone, 
1  Elizabeth  Dean,  65.  The  Lord  gave  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away.'  Wasn't  that  queer,  now?  So  I 
went  straight  and  .  .  ." 

"  The  woman's  a  fool,"  muttered  the  gentleman  next 
Peter,  a  cynical-faced  commercial  traveller.  Peter  had 
heard  the  remark  from  him  frequently  before,  and  did 
not  feel  called  upon  to  reply  to  it. 

But  the  tale  of  Elizabeth  Dean  was  interrupted  by  a 
lady  of  a  speculative  habit  of  mind. 

"  Now  I  want  to  ask  you  all,  should  one  put  up  a 
tombstone  to  the  departed  ?  I've  been  having  quite 
a  kick-up  with  my  sisters  about  it  lately.  Hadn't  one 
better  spend  the  money  on  the  living?  What  do  you 
think,  Miss  Matthews  ?  " 

Miss  Matthews  said  she  liked  to  see  a  handsome 
headstone. 

"  After  all,  one  honours  them  that  way.  It's  all 
one  can  do  for  them,  isn't  it.  " 

"Oh,  Miss  Matthews,  all?"  Several  ladies  were 
shocked.  "  What  about  one's  prayers  for  the  dead  ?  " 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  149 

"  I  don't  pray  for  the  dead,"  said  Miss  Matthews, 
who  was  a  protestant,  and  did  not  attend  the  large 
church  in  the  next  street.  "  I  do  not  belong  to  the 
Romish  religion.  I'm  not  saying  anything  against 
those  who  do,  but  I  consider  that  those  who  do  not 
should  confine  their  prayers  to  those  who  may  require 
them  in  this  troubled  world,  and  not  waste  them  upon 
those  whose  fate  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  is 
settled  once  and  for  all." 

The  lady  who  always  quarrelled  with  her  on  this 
subject  rose  to  the  occasion.  Peggy,  soothing  them 
down,  said  mechanically,  "  There  now.  .  .  .  Three 
lumps,  Peter?  .  .  .  Micky,  one  doesn't  suck  napkin 
rings ;  naughty." 

Peter  was  appealed  to  by  his  neighbour,  who  knew 
that  he  occasionally  attended  St.  Austin's  church.  Peo- 
ple were  always  drawing  him  into  theological  discus- 
sions, which  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about. 

"  Mr.  Peter,  isn't  that  against  all  reason,  to  stop 
praying  for  our  friends  merely  because  they've  passed 
through  the  veil  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Peter  agreed.  "  I  should  have  thought  so." 
But  all  he  really  thought  was  that  beyond  the  veil  was 
such  darkness  that  he  never  looked  into  it,  and  that 
it  was  a  pity  people  should  argue  on  a  holiday. 

"  Now,"  said  someone  else,  wishing  to  be  a  peace- 
maker, "  I'm  afraid  you'll  all  say  I'm  very  naughty, 
but  I  attend  the  early  Mass  at  St.  Austin's,  high  Mass 
at  the  'Roman  church " —  she  nodded  at  Peggy  — 
"  and  the  City  Temple  in  the  evening  " —  she  smiled 
at  the  commercial  traveller,  who  was  believed  to  be  a 
ISTew  Theologian.  "  Aren't  I  naughty,  now  ?  " 

Mademoiselle,  the  French  governess,  came  down  at 
this  point,  saying  she  had  had  a  dream  about  a  hat 
with  pink  roses.  The  peace-making  lady  said,  "  Bad 


ISO  THE  LEE  SHORE 

little  thing,  she's  quite  frisky  this  morning."  Hilary, 
to  whom  Mademoiselle  was  the  last  straw,  left  the  room. 

Rhoda  followed  his  example.  She  had  sat  very  si- 
lent, as  usual,  over  breakfast,  eating  little.  Peter  came 
out  with  her,  and  followed  her  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  she  stood  listlessly  playing  with  the  tassel  of  the 
blind.  Rhoda  was  thinner  than  ever,  and  floppier,  and 
took  even  less  pains  to  be  neat.  She  had  left  off  her 
beads,  but  had  not  replaced  them  by  a  collar. 

Peter  said,  "  Are  you  coming  out  with  me  this  morn- 
ing?" 

She  replied,  listless  and  uncaring,  "  If  you  like." 

"  We  might  go,"  said  Peter,  "  and  see  if  the  New 
English  Art  Club  is  open  on  Sunday  mornings.  And 
then  we'll  go  on  the  river.  Shall  we  ?  " 

She  assented  again.     "  Very  well." 

A  moment  later  she  sighed,  and  said  wearily,  "  How 
it  does  go  on,  day  after  day,  doesn't  it ! " 

Peter  said  it  did. 

"  On  and  on,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Same  stupid  people 
saying  the  same  stupid  old  things.  I  do  wonder  they 
don't  get  tired.  They  don't  know  anything,  do  they  ?  " 

Khoda's  hankering  was  still  after  Great  Minds. 

"  They're  funny  sometimes,"  suggested  Peter  ten- 
tatively; but  she  was  blind  to  that. 

"  They  don't  know  a  thing.  And  they  talk  and 
talk,  so  stupidly.  About  religion  —  as  if  one  religion 
was  different  from  another.  And  about  dead  people, 
as  if  they  knew  all  about  them  and  what  they  were 
doing.  They  seem  to  make  sure  souls  go  on  —  Miss 
Matthews  and  Miss  Baker  were  both  sure  of  that. 
But  how  can  they  tell?  Some  people  that  know  lots 
more  than  them  don't  think  so,  but  say  .  .  .  say  it's 
nothingness." 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  151 

Peter  recognised  Guy  Vyvian's  word.  Rhoda  would 
have  said  "  nothing  to  follow." 

"  People  say,"  he  agreed,  "  quite  different  things, 
and  none  of  them  know  anything  about  it,  of  course. 
One  needn't  worry,  though." 

"  You  never  worry,"  she  accused  him,  half  fretfully. 
"  But,"  she  added,  "  you  don't  preach,  either.  You 
don't  say  things  are  so  when  you  can't  know.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  anything  about  that,  Peter  —  about  going 
on?  I  don't  believe  you  do." 

Peter  reflected.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  believe 
I  do.  I  can't  look  beyond  what  I  can  see  and  touch; 
I  don't  try.  I  expect  I'm  a  materialist.  The  colours 
and  shapes  of  things  matter  so  awfully  much;  I  can't 
imagine  anything  of  them  going  on  when  those  are 
dead.  I  rather  wish  I  could.  Some  people  that  know 
lots  more  than  me  do,  and  I  think  it's  splendid  of  them 
and  for  them.  They're  very  likely  right,  too,  you. 
know." 

Rhoda  shook  her  head.     "  I  believe  it's  nothingness." 

Peter  felt  it  a  dreary  subject,  and  changed  it. 

"  Well,  let's  come  and  look  at  pictures.  And  I  can't 
imagine  nothingness,  can  you?  We  might  have  lunch 
out  somewhere,  if  you  don't  mind." 

So  they  went  out  and  looked  at  pictures,  and  went 
up  the  river  in  a  steamer,  and  had  lunch  out  some- 
where, and  Khoda  grew  very  gentle  and  more  cheerful, 
and  said,  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross  to  you,  Peter. 
You're  ever  so  good  to  me,"  and  winked  away  tears, 
and  the  gentle  Peter,  who  hated  no  one,  wished  that 
some  catastrophe  would  wipe  Guy  Vyvian  off  the  face 
of  the  earth  and  choke  his  memory  with  dust.  When- 
ever one  thought  Rhoda  was  getting  rather  better,  the 
image  of  Vyvian,  who  knew  such  a  lot  more  than  most 


152  THE  LEE  SHORE 

people,  came  up  between  her  and  the  world  she  ought 
to  have  been  enjoying,  and  she  had  a  relapse. 

Peter  and  Rhoda  came  home  together,  and  Rhoda 
said,  "  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  taking  me.  I've 
liked  it  ever  so,"  and  went  up  to  her  room  to  read 
poetry.  Rhoda  read  a  good  deal  of  the  work  of  our 
lesser  contemporary  poets;  Vyvian  had  instilled  that 
taste  into  her. 

Peter,  about  tea-time,  went  to  see  Lucy.  He  went 
by  the  Piccadilly  tube,  from  Holborn  to  South  Ken- 
sington —  (he  was  being  recklessly  extravagant  to-day, 
but  it  was  a  holiday  after  all,  and  very  hot). 

Peter  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  Hopes'  drawing-room 
and  opened  the  door,  and  what  he  had  often  dreamed  of 
had  come  about,  for  Denis  was  there,  only  in  a  strange, 
undreamed-of  way  that  made  him  giddy,  so  he  stood 
quite  still  for  a  moment  and  looked. 

He  would  have  turned  away  and  gone  before  they 
saw  him ;  but  they  had  seen  him,  and  Lucy  said,  "  Oh, 
Peter  —  come  in,"  and  Denis  said,  "  Oh  .  .  .  hullo," 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

Peter,  who  was  dizzily  readjusting  certain  rather 
deeply-rooted  ideas,  said,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  I've 
come  .  .  .  I've  come  to  tea,  you  know." 

"  'Course  you  have,"  said  Lucy.  Then  she  looked 
up  into  Peter's  face  and  smiled,  and  slipped  her  hand 
into  his.  "  How  nice ;  we're  three  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter. 

"  But  I  must  go,"  said  Urquhart.  "  I'm  awfully 
sorry,  but  I've  got  to  meet  a  man.  ...  I  shall  see  you 
some  time,  shan't  I,  Margery?  Why  don't  you  ever 
come  and  see  me,  you  slacker  ?  Well,  good-bye.  Good- 
bye, Lucy.  Lunch  to-morrow;  don't  forget." 

He  was  gone. 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  153 

Peter  sat  on  the  coal-scuttle,  and  Lucy  gave  him  tea, 
with  three  lumps  in  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Peter. 

Lucy  looked  at  him.  "  You  did  know,  didn't  you  ? 
All  this  time,  I  mean?  I  didn't  tell  you,  because  I 
never  tell  you  things,  of  course.  You  always  know 
them.  And  this  particularly.  You  did  know  it, 
Peter?  But  when  you  came  in  you  looked  .  .  .  you 
looked  as  if  you  didn't." 

"  I  was  stupid,"  said  Peter.  "  I  ought  to  have 
known." 

Looking  back,  he  saw  that  he  certainly  ought.  He 
certainly  must  have,  only  that  his  vision  had  been 
blocked  by  a  certain  deeply-rooted  idea,  that  was  as 
old  as  his  growth.  He  had  assumed,  without  words. 
He  had  thought  that  she  too  had  assumed;  neither 
had  ever  required  words  to  elucidate  their  ideas  one 
to  the  other ;  they  had  kept  words  for  the  other  things, 
the  jolly,  delightful  things  of  the  foreground. 

"  How  long  ?  "  asked  Peter,  drinking  his  tea  to  warm 
him,  for,  though  it  was  so  hot  outside,  he  felt  very  cold 
in  here. 

She  told  him.  "  Oh,  since  the  beginning,  I  think. 
I  thought  you  knew,  Peter.  .  .  .  We  didn't  say  any- 
thing about  it  till  quite  lately.  Only  we  both  knew." 

She  came  and  sat  on  the  rug  by  his  side,  and  slipped 
her  hand  into  his.  "  Are  you  glad,  Peter  ?  Please, 
Peter,  be  glad." 

"  I  will  presently,"  said  Peter,  with  one  of  his  fainter 
smiles.  "  Let  me  just  get  used  to  it,  and  I  will." 

She  whispered,  stroking  his  hand,  "  We've  always 
had  such  fun,  Peter,  we  three.  Haven't  we?  Let's 
go  on  having  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter.     "  Let's." 


154  THE  LEE  SHORE 

He  was  vague  still,  and  a  little  dizzy,  but  he  could 
smile  at  her  now.  After  all,  wasn't  it  splendid? 
Denis  and  Lucy  —  the  two  people  he  loved  best  in  the 
world ;  so  immeasurably  best  that  beside  them  everyone 
else  was  no  class  at  all. 

He  sat  very  still  on  the  coal-scuttle,  making  a  fresh 
discovery  about  himself.  He  had  known  before  that 
he  had  a  selfish  disposition,  though  he  had  never  thought 
about  it  particularly;  but  he  hadn't  known  that  it  was 
in  him  to  grudge  Denis  anything  —  Denis,  who  was 
consciously  more  to  him  than  anyone  else  in  the  world. 
Lucy  was  different;  she  was  rooted  in  the  very  fibre 
of  his  being;  it  wasn't  so  much  that  he  consciously 
loved  her  as  that  she  was  his  other  self.  Well,  hadn't 
he  long  since  given  to  Denis,  to  use  as  he  would,  all 
the  self  he  had  ? 

But  the  wrench  made  him  wince,  and  left  him  chilly 
and  grown  old. 

"  It's  perfectly  splendid  for  both  of  you,"  said  Peter, 
himself  again  at  last.  "  And  it  was  extraordinarily 
stupid  of  me  not  to  see  it  before.  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
Denis  really  meant  I  could  go  and  see  him?  I  think 
I  will." 

"  'Course  he  did.  'Course  you  will.  Go  to-morrow. 
But  now  it's  going  to  be  just  you  and  me  and  tea. 
And  honey  sandwiches  —  oh,  Peter ! "  Her  eyes 
danced  at  him,  because  it  was  such  a  nice  world. 
He  came  off  the  coal-scuttle  and  made  himself  com- 
fortable in  a  low  chair  near  the  honey  sandwiches. 
"  Will  you  and  Denis  try  always  to  have  them  when  I 
come  to  tea  with  you?  I  do  love  them  so.  Have 
you  arranged  svhen  it  is  to  be,  by  the  way  ? " 

"  No.  Father  won't  want  it  to  be  for  ages  —  he 
won't  like  it  to  be  at  all,  of  course,  because  Denis  isn't 
poor  or  miserable  or  revolutionary.  But  Felicity  has 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  155 

done  so  nicely  for  him  in  that  way  (Lawrence  is  get- 
ting into  horrid  rows  in  Poland,  you  know)  that  I 
think  I've  a  right  to  someone  happy  and  clean,  don't 
you  ?  .  .  .  And  Denis  wants  it  to  be  soon.  So  I  sup- 
pose it  will  be  soon." 

"  Sure  to  be,"  Peter  agreed. 

The  room  was  full  of  roses;  their  sweetness  was  ex- 
uberant, intoxicating;  not  like  Lucy,  who  usually  had 
small,  pale,  faint  flowers. 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  she  said,  "  how  one  thinks  one 
can't  be  any  happier,  and  then  suddenly  something 
happens  inside  one,  and  one  sees  everything  new.  I 
used  to  think  things  couldn't  be  brighter  and  shine 
more  —  but  now  they  glitter  like  the  sun,  all  new." 

"  I  expect  so,"  said  Peter. 

Then  she  had  a  little  stab  of  remorse;  for  Peter 
had  been  turned  out  of  the  place  of  glittering  things, 
and  moved  in  a  grey  and  dusty  world  among  things 
no  one  could  like. 

"  'Tis  so  stupid  that  your  work  is  like  that,"  she 
isaid,  with  puckered  forehead.  "  I  wish  you  could 
find  something  nice  to  do,  Peter  dear." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Peter.  "  And  there  are 
all  the  nice  things  which  aren't  work,  just  the  same. 
Rhoda  and  I  went  a  ride  in  a  steamer  this  morning. 
And  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  water  —  rather  nice, 
it  was.  Even  Rhoda  grew  a  little  brighter  to  see  it. 
Poor  Ehoda ;  the  boarders  do  worry  her  so.  I'm  sorry 
about  it;  they  don't  worry  me;  I  rather  like  them. 
Some  day  soon  I  want  you  to  come  and  see  Rhoda;  it 
would  cheer  her  up.  I  wish  she  liked  things  more. 
She's  left  off  her  bead  necklace,  you  know.  And  she 
gets  worried  because  people  discuss  the  condition  of  '  the 
departed '  (that's  what  we  call  them  in  the  boarding- 
house).  Rhoda  is  sure  they  are  in  nothingness.  I 


156  THE  LEE  SHORE 

told  her  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  speculate  on  such 
things.  How  can  one,  you  know  ?  People  have  so 
much  imagination.  Mine  always  sticks  at  a  certain 
point  and  won't  move  on.  Could  you  do  it  if  some- 
one asked  you  to  imagine  Denis,  say,  without  his 
body?" 

She  wrinkled  her  forehead,  trying  to. 

"  Denis's  body  matters  a  lot,"  was  her  conclusion. 
"  I  suppose  it's  because  it's  such  a  nice  one." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Peter.  "  People's  bodies  are  nice. 
And  when  they're  not  I  don't  believe  their  minds  are 
very  nice  either,  so  I'd  rather  not  think  about  them. 
Now  I  must  go  home." 

It  was  very  hot  going  home.  London  was  a  baked 
place,  full  of  used  air  —  Peter's  bedroom  on  a  large 
scale.  Peter  tried  walking  back,  but  found  he  was 
rather  giddy,  so  got  into  a  bus  that  took  him  the  wrong 
way,  a  thing  he  often  did.  Riding  across  London  on 
the  top  of  a  bus  is,  of  course,  the  greatest  fun,  even  if 
it  is  the  wrong  bus.  It  makes  up  for  almost  any  mis- 
fortune. 

A  few  days  later,  after  office  hours,  Peter  took  Urqu- 
hart  at  his  word  and  went  to  his  rooms.  Urquhart 
wasn't  there,  but  would  be  in  some  time,  he  was  told, 
so  he  sat  and  waited  for  him.  It  was  a  pleasant  change 
after  the  boarding-house  rooms.  Urquhart's  things 
were  nice  to  look  at,  without  being  particularly  artistic. 
There  was  nothing  dingy,  or  messy,  or  second-rate,  or 
cheap.  A  graceful,  careless  expensiveness  was  the  dom- 
inant note.  An  aroma  of  good  tobacco  hung  about. 
Peter  liked  to  smell  good  tobacco,  though  he  smoked 
none,  good  or  bad. 

Urquhart  came  in  at  seven  o'clock.  He  was  going  to 
dine  somewhere  at  eight,  so  he  hadn't  much  time. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Margery.     Quite  time  you  came." 


THE  LOSS  OF  AN  IDEA  157 

Peter  thought  it  nice  of  him  to  speak  so  pleasantly, 
seeming  to  ignore  the  last  time  Peter  had  come  to  see 
him.  He  had  been  restrained  and  embarrassed  then; 
now  he  was  friendly,  in  the  old  casual,  unemphasised 
way. 

"  How  splendid  about  you  and  Lucy,"  said  Peter. 
"  A  very  suitable  alliance,  I  call  it." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Denis,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  She's 
so  much  the  nicest  person  I  know.  I  perceived  that 
the  day  you  introduced  us." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Peter.     "  You  would." 

"  Do  you  mind,"  said  Denis,  "  if  I  dress  ?  We  can 
talk  meanwhile.  Rotten  luck  that  I'm  booked  for  din- 
ner, or  we  could  have  had  it  together.  You  must  come 
another  day." 

While  he  dressed  he  told  Peter  that  he  was  going 
to  stand  at  the  next  elections.  Peter  had  known  be- 
fore that  Denis  was  ultimately  destined  to  assist  in  the 
government  of  his  country,  and  now  it  appeared  that 
the  moment  had  arrived. 

"  Do  you  really  take  a  side  ?  "  Peter  enquired.  "  Or 
is  it  just  a  funny  game  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  it's  a  game  too ;  most  things  are. 
But,  of  course,  one's  a  Conservative  and  all  that,  if 
one's  a  person  of  sense.  It's  the  only  thing  to  be,  you 
know." 

"  I  rather  like  both  sides,"  said  Peter.  "  They're 
both  so  keen,  and  so  sure  they're  right.  But  I  expect 
Conservatives  are  the  Tightest,  because  they  want  to 
keep  things.  I  hate  people  who  want  to  make  a  mess 
and  break  things  up  and  throw  them  away.  Besides, 
I  suppose  one  couldn't  really  be  on  the  same  side  as 
what's  his  name  —  that  man  everyone  dislikes  so  — 
could  one  ?  or  any  of  those  violent  people." 

Urquhart  said  one  certainly  couldn't.     Besides,  there 


158  THE  LEE  SHORE 

were  Free  Trade  and  Home  Bule,  and  dozens  of  other 
things  to  be  considered.  Obviously  Conservatives  were 
right. 

"  I  ought  to  get  in,"  he  said,  "  unless  anything  up- 
sets it.  The  Unionist  majority  last  time  was  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty." 

Peter  laughed.  It  was  rather  nice  to  hear  Denis 
talking  like  a  real  candidate. 

When  Denis  was  ready,  he  said,  "  I'm  dining  in 
Norfolk  Street.  Can  you  walk  with  me  part  of  the 
way  ? " 

Peter  said  it  was  on  the  way  to  Brook  Street,  where 
he  lived.  Denis  displayed  no  interest  in  Brook  Street. 
As  far  as  he  intended  to  cultivate  Peter's  acquaint- 
ance, it  was  to  be  as  a  unit,  detached  from  his  dis- 
graceful relatives.  Peter  understood  that.  As  he 
hadn't  much  expected  to  be  cultivated  again  at  all, 
he  was  in  good  spirits  as  he  walked  with  Denis  to 
Norfolk  Street.  No  word  passed  between  them  as  to 
Peter's  past  disgrace  or  present  employment;  Denis 
had  an  easy  way  of  sliding  lightly  over  embarrassing 
subjects. 

They  parted,  and  Denis  dined  in  Norfolk  Street  with 
a  parliamentary  secretary,  and  Peter  supped  in  Brook 
Street  with  the  other  boarders. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    LOSS    OF    A    GOBLET    AND    OTHEB    THINGS 

DENIS  and  Lucy  were  married  at  the  end  of  Septem- 
ber. They  went  motoring  in  Italy  for  a  month,  and 
by  the  beginning  of  November  were  settled  at  Astleys. 
Astleys  was  in  Berkshire,  and  was  TJrquhart's  home. 
It  was  rather  beautiful,  as  homes  go,  with  a  careless, 
prosperous  grace  about  it  at  which  Lucy  laughed  be- 
cause it  was  so  Urquhartesque. 

Almost  at  once  they  asked  some  people  to  stay  there 
to  help  with  the  elections  and  the  pheasant  shooting. 
The  elections  were  hoped  for  in  December.  Urquhart 
did  not  propose  to  bother  much  about  them;  he  was  a 
good  deal  more  interested  in  the  pheasants;  but  he 
had,  of  course,  every  intention  of  doing  the  usual  and 
suitable  things,  and  carrying  the  business  through  well. 
Lucy  only  laughed ;  to  want  to  get  into  Parliament  was 
so  funny,  looked  at  from  the  point  of  view  she  had  al- 
ways been  used  to.  Denis,  being  used  by  inheritance 
and  upbringing  to  another  point  of  view,  did  not  see 
that  it  was  so  funny ;  to  him  it  was  a  very  natural  pro- 
fession for  a  man  to  go  into;  his  family  had  always 
provided  a  supply  of  members  for  both  houses.  Lucy 
and  Peter,  socially  more  obscure,  laughed  childishly 
together  over  it.  "  Fancy  being  a  Liberal  or  a  Con- 
servative out  of  all  the  things  there  are  in  the  world  to 
be !  "  as  Peter  had  once  commented. 

But  it  was  delightfully  Urquhart-like,  this  lordly 
assumption  of  a  share  in  the  government  of  a  country. 
No  doubt  it  was  worth  having,  because  all  the  things 


160  THE  LEE  SHORE 

TJrquhart  wanted  and  obtained  were  that;  he  had  an 
eye  for  good  things,  like  Peter,  only  he  gained  posses- 
sion of  them,  and  Peter  could  only  admire  from  afar. 

They  were  talking  about  the  election  prospects  at 
dinner  on  the  evening  of  the  fifteenth  of  November. 
They  were  a  young  and  merry  party.  At  one  end  of 
the  table  was  Denis,  looking  rather  pale  after  a  hard 
day's  hunting,  and  very  much  amused  with  life;  at 
the  other  Lucy,  in  a  white  frock,  small  and  open-eyed 
like  a  flower,  and  very  much  amused  too ;  and  between 
them  were  the  people,  young  mostly,  and  gay,  who  were 
staying  with  them.  Lucy,  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  secluded  Bohemianism,  found  it  very  funny  and 
nice  having  a  house-party,  and  so  many  servants  to 
see  after  them  all  that  one  needn't  bother  to  run  round 
and  make  sure  everyone  had  soap,  and  so  on. 

One  person,  not  young,  who  was  staying  there,  was 
Lord  Evelyn  TJrquhart.  Lucy  loved  him.  He  loved 
her,  and  told  funny  stories.  Sometimes,  between  the 
stories,  she  would  catch  his  near-sighted,  screwed  up 
eyes  scanning  her  face  with  a  queer  expression  that 
might  have  been  wistfulness;  he  seemed  at  times  to  be 
looking  for  something  in  her  face,  and  finding  it.  Par- 
ticularly when  she  laughed,  in  her  chuckling,  gurgling 
way,  he  looked  like  this,  and  would  grow  grave  sud- 
denly. They  had  talked  together  about  all  manner  of 
things,  being  excellent  friends,  but  only  once  so  far 
about  Lucy's  cousin  Peter.  Once  had  been  too  much, 
Lucy  had  found.  The  Margerisons  were  a  tabooed 
subject  with  Lord  Evelyn  TJrquhart. 

Denis  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  it.  "  They  did 
him  brown,  you  see,"  he  explained,  in  his  light,  casual 
way.  "  TJncle  Evelyn  can't  forgive  that.  And  it's 
because  he  was  so  awfully  fond  of  Peter  that  he's  so 
bitter  against  him  now.  I  never  mention  him;  it's 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET  161 

best  not.  .  .  .  You  know,  you  keep  giving  the  poor 
dear  shocks  by  looking  like  Peter,  and  laughing  like 
him,  and  using  his  words.  You  are  rather  like,  you 
know." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lucy.  "  It's  not  only  looking  and 
laughing  and  words;  we  think  alike  too.  So  perhaps 
if  he  gets  fond  of  me  he'll  forgive  Peter  sometime." 

"  He's  an  implacable  old  beggar,"  Denis  said. 
"  It's  stupid  of  him.  It  never  seems  to  me  worth  while 
to  get  huffy;  it's  so  uncomfortable.  He  expects  too 
much  of  people,  and  when  they  disappoint  him  he " 

"  Takes  umbradge,"  Lucy  filled  in  for  him.  That 
was  another  of  Peter's  expressions;  they  shared  to- 
gether a  number  of  such  stilted,  high-sounding  phrases, 
mostly  culled  either  out  of  Adelphi  melodrama  or  the 
fiction  of  a  by-gone  age. 

To-night,  when  the  cloth  had  been  removed  that  they 
might  eat  fruit,  Denis  was  informed  that  there  was 
a  gentleman  waiting  to  see  him.  The  gentleman  had 
not  vouchsafed  either  his  name  or  business,  so  he  could 
obviously  wait  a  little  longer,  till  Denis  had  finished 
his  own  business.  In  twenty  minutes  Denis  went  to 
the  library,  and  there  found  Hilary  Margerison,  sitting 
by  the  fire  in  a  great  coat  and  muffler  and  looking  cold. 
When  he  rose  and  faced  him,  Denis  saw  that  he  also 
looked  paler  than  of  old,  and  thinner,  and  less  perfectly 
shaved,  and  his  hair  was  longer.  He  might  have  been 
called  seedy-looking;  he  might  have  been  Sidney  Car- 
ton in  "  The  Only  Way  " ;  he  had  always  that  touch  of 
the  dramatic  about  him  that  suggested  a  stage  character. 
He  had  a  bad  cough. 

"  Oh,"  said  Urquhart,  polite  and  feeling  embar- 
rassed ;  "  how  do  you  do  ?  I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you 
waiting;  they  didn't  tell  me  who  it  was.  Sit  down, 
won't  you  ?  " 


162  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Hilary  said  thanks,  he  thought  not.  He  had  a  keen 
sense  of  the  fit.  So  he  refused  the  cigarette  Urquhart 
offered  him,  and  stood  by  the  fire,  looking  at  the  floor. 
Urquhart  stood  opposite  him,  and  thought  how  ill  and 
how  little  reputable  he  looked. 

Hilary  said,  in  his  high,  sweet,  husky  voice,  "  It  is 
no  use  beating  about  the  bush.  I  want  help.  We  are 
in  need ;  we  are  horribly  hard  up,  to  put  it  baldly.  That 
has  passed  between  your  family  and  mine  which  makes 
you  the  last  person  I  should  wish  to  appeal  to  as  a 
beggar.  I  propose  a  business  transaction."  He  paused 
to  cough. 

Urquhart,  feeling  impatient  at  the  prospect  of  a  pro- 
voking interview  when  he  wanted  to  be  playing  bridge, 
said  "  Yes  ?  "  politely. 

"  You,"  said  Hilary,  "  are  intending  to  stand  as  a 
candidate  for  this  constituency.  You  require  for  that, 
I  fancy,  a  reputation  wholly  untarnished;  the  least 
breath  dimming  it  would  be  for  you  a  disastrous  calam- 
ity. I  have  some  information  which,  if  sent  to  the  local 
Liberal  paper,  would  seriously  tell  against  you  in  the 
public  mind.  It  is  here." 

He  took  it  out  of  his  breast  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
Urquhart  —  a  type-written  sheet  of  paper.  He  must 
certainly  have  been  to  a  provincial  theatre  lately;  he 
had  hit  its  manners  and  methods  to  a  nicety,  the  silly 
ass. 

Urquhart  took  the  paper  gingerly  and  did  not  look 
at  it. 

"  Thanks ;  but  ...  I  don't  know  that  I  am  inter- 
ested, do  you  know.  Isn't  this  all  rather  silly,  Mr. 
Margerison  ? " 

"  If  you  will  oblige  me  by  reading  it,"  said  Mr. 
Margerison. 

So  Urquhart  obliged  him.     It  was  all  about  him, 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET          163 

as  was  to  be  expected;  enough  to  make  a  column  of 
the  Berkshire  Press. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Hilary,  when  he  had  done. 

"  Well,"  said  Urquhart,  folding  up  the  paper  and 
returning  it,  "  thank  you  for  showing  it  me.  But 
again  I  must  say  that  I  am  not  particularly  interested. 
Of  course  you  will  send  anything  you  like  to  any  pa- 
per you  like;  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  There's  the 
libel  law,  as  of  course  you  know;  newspapers  are  as  a 
rule  rather  careful  about  that.  No  respectable  paper, 
I  needn't  say,  would  care  to  use  such  copy  as  this  of 
yours.  .  .  .  Well,  good  night.  .  .  .  Oh,  by  the  way,  I 
suppose  your  brother  told  you  all  that  ? " 

Hilary  said,  "  I  had  it  from  various  reliable  sources." 
He  stood  uncertain,  with  wavering  eyes,  despair  killing 
hope.  "  You  will  do  nothing  at  all  to  save  your  repu- 
tation, then  ? " 

Urquhart  laughed,  unamused,  with  hard  eyes.  He 
was  intensely  irritated. 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  ?  I  don't  care  what  you 
get  printed  in  any  dirty  rag  about  me,  man.  Why  on 
earth  should  I  ?  " 

The  gulf  between  them  yawned;  it  was  unbridge- 
able. From  Hilary's  world  insults  might  be  shrieked 
and  howled,  dirt  thrown  with  all  the  strength  of  hate, 
and  neither  shrieks  nor  dirt  would  reach  across  the 
gulf  to  Urquhart's.  They  simply  didn't  matter. 
Hilary,  realising  this,  grew  slowly,  dully  red,  with  the 
bitterness  of  mortified  expectation.  Urquhart's  look 
at  him,  supercilious,  contemptuous,  aloof,  slightly  dis- 
gusted, hurt  his  vanity.  He  caught  at  the  only  weapon 
he  had  which  could  hurt  back. 

"  I  must  go  and  tell  Peter,  then,  that  his  informa- 
tion has  been  of  no  use." 

Urquhart  said  merely,  "  Peter  won't  be  surprised. 


164  THE  LEE  SHORE 

It's  no  good  your  trying  to  make  me  think  that  Peter 
is  joining  in  this  absurdity.  He  has  too  much  sense 
of  the  ridiculous.  He  seems  to  have  talked  to  you 
pretty  freely  of  my  concerns,  which  I  certainly  fancied 
he  would  keep  to  himself;  I  suppose  he  did  that  by 
way  of  providing  entertaining  conversation;  Peter  was 
always  a  chatterbox" — it  was  as  well  that  Peter  was 
not  there  to  hear  the  edge  in  the  soft,  indifferent  voice 
— "  but  he  isn't  quite  such  a  fool  as  to  have  counte- 
nanced this  rather  stagey  proceeding  of  yours.  He 
knows  me  —  used  to  know  me  —  pretty  well,  you  see. 
.  .  .  Good  night.  You  have  plenty  of  time  to  catch 
your  train,  I  think." 

Hilary  stopped  to  say,  "  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ? 
Xou  won't  let  your  connexion  with  our  family  —  with 
Peter  —  induce  you  to  help  us  in  our  need  ?  .  .  .  I've 
done  an  unpleasant  thing  to-night,  you  know;  I've  put 
my  pride  in  my  pocket  and  stooped  to  the  methods  of 
the  cad,  for  the  sake  of  my  wife  and  little  children. 
I  admit  I  have  made  a  mistake,  both  of  taste  and  judg- 
ment; I  have  behaved  unworthily;  you  may  say  .like 
a  fool.  But  are  you  prepared  to  see  us  go  under  —  to 
drive  by  and  leave  us  lying  in  the  road,  as  you  did  to 
that  old  Tuscan  peasant?  Does  it  in  no  way  affect 
your  feelings  towards  us  that  you  are  now  Peter's 
cousin  by  marriage  —  besides  being  practically,  his 
half-brother  ? " 

"  I  am  not  practically,  or  in  any  other  way,  Peter's 
half-brother,"  said  Urquhart  casually.  "  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  Peter  and  I  are  —  have  been 
—  friends,  as  you  know.  I  should  naturally  give  him 
help  if  he  asked  me  for  it.  He  has  not  done  so;  all 
that  has  happened  is  that  you  have  tried  to  blackmail 
me.  ...  I  really  see  no  use  in  prolonging  this  inter- 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET          165 

view,   Mr.   Margerison.     Good  night."   Urquhart  was 
bored  and  impatient  with  the  ahsurd  scene. 

Into  the  middle  of  it  walked  Peter,  pale  and  breath- 
less. He  stood  by  the  door  and  looked  at  them,  dazed 
and  blinking  at  the  light;  looked  at  Urquhart,  who 
stood  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the  chimney-piece, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the  light  full  on  his  fair,  tran- 
quil, bored  face,  and  at  Hilary,  pale  and  tragic,  with 
wavering,  unhappy  eyes.  So  they  stood  for  a  type 
and  a  symbol  and  a  sign  that  never,  as  long  as  the  world 
endures,  shall  Margerisons  get  the  better  of  Urquharts. 

They  both  looked  at  Peter,  and  Urquhart's  brows 
rose  a  little,  as  if  to  say,  "  More  Margerisons  yet  ? " 

Hilary  said,  "  What's  the  matter,  Peter  ?  Why  have 
you  come  ? " 

Peter  said,  rather  faintly,  "  I  meant  to  stop  you 
before  you  saw  Denis.  I  suppose  I'm  too  late.  .  .  . 
I  made  Peggy  tell  me.  I  found  a  paper,  you  see ;  and 
I  asked  Peggy,  and  she  said  you'd  come  down  here  to 
use  it.  Have  you  ? " 

"  He  has  already  done  his  worst,"  Denis's  ironic 
voice  answered  for  him.  "  Sprung  the  awful  threat 
upon  me." 

Peter  leant  back  against  the  door,  feeling  rather  sick. 
He  had  run  all  the  way  from  the  station;  and,  as  al- 
ways, he  was  too  late. 

Then  he  laughed  a  little.  The  contrast  of  Hilary's 
tragedian  air  and  Urquhart's  tranquil  boredom  was 
upsetting  to  him. 

Urquhart  didn't  laugh,  but  looked  at  him  enquir- 
ingly. 

"  It's  certainly  funny  rather,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  You  must  have  got  a  good  deal  of  quiet  fun  out  of 
compiling  that  column." 


166  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Oh,"  said  Peter.     "  But  I  didn't,  you  know." 

"  I  gather  you  helped  —  supplied  much  of  the  in- 
formation. That  story  of  the  old  man  I  brutally  slew 
and  then  callously  left  uncared  for  on  the  road  —  you 
seem  to  have  coloured  that  rather  highly  in  passing  it 
on.  ...  I  suppose  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  fancy  that 
you  weren't  intending  to  make  that  public  property. 
Not  that  I  particularly  mind:  there  was  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  that  business ;  but  it  somehow  never  hap- 
pened to  occur  to  me  that  you  were  relating  it." 

"  I  didn't,"  said  Peter.     "  I  have  never  told  anyone." 

Urquhart  said  nothing;  his  silence  was  expressive. 

Peter  stammered  into  speech  incoherently. 

"  At  least  —  at  least  —  yes,  I  believe  I  did  tell  Peggy 
the  story,  months  ago,  in  Venice  —  but  I  didn't  say  it 
was  you.  I  merely  said,  if  someone  had  done  that 
.  .  .  what  would  she  think?  I  wanted  to  know  if, 
she  thought  we  ought  to  have  found  the  old  man's  peo- 
ple and  told  them." 

"  I  see,"  said  Urquhart.     "  And  did  she  ?  " 

"!No.  She  thought  it  was  all  right."  Peter  had 
known  beforehand  that  Peggy  would  think  it  was  all 
right;  that  was  why  he  had  asked  her,  to  be  reassured, 
to  have  the  vague  trouble  in  his  mind  quieted. 

And  she,  apparently,  had  seen  through  his  futile 
pretence,  had  known  it  was  Urquhart  he  spoke  of, 
needed  reassuring  about  (Peter  didn't  realise  that  even 
less  shrewd  observers  than  Peggy  might  easily  know 
when  it  was  Urquhart  he  spoke  of)  and  had  gone  and 
told  Hilary.  And  Hilary,  in  his  need,  had  twisted  it 
into  this  disgusting  story,  and  had  typed  it  and  brought 
it  down  to  Astleys  to-night,  with  other  twisted  stories. 

"  I  suppose  the  rest  too,"  said  Urquhart,  "  you  re- 
lated to  your  sister-in-law  to  see  what  she  would  think." 

Peter  stammered,  "  I  don't  think  so.     No,  I  don't 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET  167 

believe  anything  else  came  from  me.     Did  it,  Hilary  ?  " 

Hilary  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  made  no  other 
answer. 

"  It  really  doesn't  particularly  matter,"  said  Urqu- 
hart,  "  whether  the  informant  was  you  or  some  other 
of  my  acquaintances.  I  daresay  my  gyp  is  responsible 
for  the  story  of  the  actresses  I  brought  down  to  the 
St.  Gabriel's  dance;  he  knew  about  it  at  the  time,  I 
believe.  I  am  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  that  either ; 
the  '  Berkshire  Press '  is  extremely  welcome  to  it,  if 
it  can  find  space  for  it.  ...  Well,  now,  will  you  both 
stay  the  night  with  me,  or  must  you  get  back?  The 
last  good  train  goes  at  10.5,  I  think." 

Peter  said,  "  Come  along,  Hilary." 

Urquhart  stood  and  watched  them  go. 

As  they  turned  away,  he  said,  in  his  gentle,  inex- 
pressive voice,  that  hadn't  been  raised  in  anger  once, 
"  Can  I  lend  you  any  money,  Peter  ? " 

Peter  shook  his  head,  though  he  felt  Hilary  start. 

"  !No,  thank  you.  It  is  very  good  of  you.  .  .  .  Good 
night." 

"  Good  night." 

Going  out  of  the  room,  they  came  face  to  face  with 
Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart  coming  in.  He  saw  them;  he 
stiffened  a  little,  repressing  a  start ;  he  stood  elaborately 
aside  to  let  them  pass,  bowing  slightly. 

Neither  Margerison  said  anything.  Hilary's  bow 
was  the  stage  copy  of  his  own;  Peter  didn't  look  at 
him  at  all,  but  hurried  by. 

The  servant  let  them  out,  and  shut  the  hall  door  be- 
hind them. 

Lord  Evelyn  said  to  his  nephew  in  the  library,  swing- 
ing his  eyeglass  restlessly  to  and  fro,  "  Why  do  you  let 
those  people  into  your  house,  Denis?  I  thought  we 
had  done  with  them." 


i68  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  They  came  to  call,"  said  Denis,  who  did  not  seem 
disposed  to  be  communicative.  "  I  can't  say  why  they 
chose  this  particular  hour." 

Lord  Evelyn  paced  up  the  room,  restless,  nervous, 
petulant. 

"  It's  monstrous,"  he  said  querulously.  "  Perfectly 
monstrous.  Shameless.  How  dare  they  show  their 
faces  in  this  house?  ...  I  suppose  they  wanted  some- 
thing out  of  you,  did  they  ?  " 

Denis  merely  said,  "  After  all,  Peter  is  my  cousin 
by  marriage,  you  must  remember.  And  I  have  never 
broken  with  him." 

Lord  Evelyn  returned,  "  The  more  shame  to  you. 
He's  as  great  a  swindler  as  his  precious  brother ;  they're 
a  pair,  you  can't  deny  that." 

Denis  didn't  attempt  to  deny  it;  probably  he  was 
feeling  a  little  tired  of  the  Margerisons  to-night. 

"  I'm  not  defending  Peter,  or  his  brother  either.  I 
only  said  that  he's  Lucy's  cousin,  and  she's  very  fond 
of  him,  and  I'm  not  keen  on  actually  breaking  with 
him.  As  to  the  brother,  he's  so  much  more  of  an  ass 
than  anything  else  that  to  call  him  a  swindler  is  more 
than  he  deserves.  He  simply  came  here  to-night  to 
play  the  fool;  he's  no  more  sense  than  a  silly  ass  out 
of  a  play." 

That  was  what  Peter  was  telling  Hilary  on  the  way 
to  the  station.  Hilary  defended  himself  rather  feebly. 

"  My  good  Peter,  we  must  have  money.  We  are  in 
positive  want.  Of  course,  I  never  meant  to  proceed 
to  extremities;  I  thought  the  mere  mention  of  such  a 
threat  would  be  enough  to  make  him  see  that  we  really 
were  desperately  hard  up,  and  that  he  might  as  well 
help  us.  But  he  doesn't  care.  Like  all  rich  people,  he 
is  utterly  callous  and  selfish.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  Lucy 
would  possibly  give  us  any  help,  if  you  asked  her  ? " 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLfcT          169 

"  I  shan't  ask  her/'  said  Peter.  "  Don't,  please, 
Hilary,"  he  added  miserably.  "  Can't  you  see.  .  .  ." 

"  See  what  ?  I  see  that  we  get  a  little  more  desti- 
tute every  day:  that  the  boarders  are  melting  away; 
that  I  am  reduced  to  unthinkably  sordid  hackwork, 
and  you  to  the  grind  of  uncongenial  toil;  that  Peggy 
can't  afford  to  keep  a  cook  who  can  boil  a  potato  re- 
spectably (they  were  like  walnuts  to-day)  that  she  and 
the  children  go  about  with  their  clothes  dropping  off 
them.  I  see  that;  and  I  see  these  Urquharts,  closely 
connected  with  our  family,  rolling  in  unearned  riches, 
spending  and  squandering  and  wasting  and  never  giv- 
ing away.  I  see  the  Robinsons,  our  own  relations,  fat- 
tening on  the  money  that  ought  to  have  come  to  us,  and 
now  and  then  throwing  us  a  loan  as  you  throw  a  dog 
a  bone.  I  see  your  friend  Leslie  taking  himself  off  to 
the  antipodes  to  spend  his  millions,  that  he  may  be  out 
of  the  reach  of  disturbing  appeals.  I  see  a  world  con- 
stituted so  that  you  would  think  the  devils  in  hell  must 
cry  shame  on  it."  His  cough,  made  worse  by  the  fog, 
choked  his  relation  of  his  vision. 

Peter  had  nothing  to  say  to  it:  he  could  only  sigH 
over  it.  The  Haves  and  the  Have-Nots  —  there  they 
are,  and  there  is  no  getting  round  the  ugly  fact. 

"  Denis,"  said  Peter,  "  would  lend  me  money  if  I 
asked  him.  You  heard  him  offer.  But  I  am  not  going 
to  ask  him.  We  are  none  of  us  going  to  ask  him.  If 
I  find  that  you  have,  and  that  he  has  given  it  you, 
I  shall  pay  it  straight  back.  .  .  .  You  know,  Hilary, 
we're  really  not  so  badly  off  as  all  that;  we  get  along 
pretty  well,  I  think;  better  than  most  other  people." 
The  other  Have-Nots;  they  made  no  difference,  in 
Hilary's  eyes,  to  the  fact  that  of  course  the  Margeri- 
sons  should  have  been  among  the  Haves. 

Hilary  said,  "  You  are  absolutely  impervious,  Peter, 


170  THE  LEE  SHORE 

to  other  people's  troubles,"  and  turned  up  his  coat-col- 
lar and  sank  down  on  a  seat  in  the  waiting-room.  (Of 
course,  they  had  missed  the  10.5,  the  last  good  train, 
and  were  now  waiting  for  the  11.2,  the  slow  one.) 

Peter  walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  feeling  very 
cold.  He  had  come  away,  in  his  excitement,  without 
his  overcoat.  The  chill  of  the  foggy  night  seemed  to 
sink  deep  into  his  innermost  being. 

Hilary's  words  rang  in  his  ears.  "  I  see  that  we 
get  a  little  more  destitute  every  day."  It  was  true. 
Every  day  the  Margerisons  seemed  to  lose  something 
more.  To-night  Peter  had  lost  something  he  could  ill 
afford  to  part  with  —  another  degree  of  Denis  Urqu- 
hart's  regard.  That  seemed  to  be  falling  from  him  bit 
by  bit ;  perhaps  that  was  why  he  felt  so  cold.  However 
desperately  he  clung  to  the  remnants,  as  he  had  clung 
since  that  last  interview  in  Venice,  he  could  not  think 
to  keep  them  much  longer  at  this  rate. 

As  he  walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  his  cold 
hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  he  was  contem- 
plating another  loss  —  one  that  would  hurt  absurdly 
much. 

If  Hilary  felt  that  he  needed  more  money  so  badly, 
he  must  have  it.  There  were  certain  things  Peter  de- 
clined to  do.  He  wouldn't  borrow  from  the  Urquharts ; 
but  he  would  sell  his  last  treasured  possession  to  soothe 
Hilary  for  a  little  while.  The  Berovieri  goblet  had 
been  bought  for  a  lot  of  money,  and  could  at  any  mo- 
ment be  sold  for  a  lot  of  money.  The  Berovieri  goblet 
must  go. 

That  evening,  in  the  tiny  attic  room,  Peter  took  the 
adorable  thing  out  of  the  box  where  it  lay  hid,  and  set 
it  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  in  front  of  the  candle,  so 
that  the  flame  shone  through  the  blue  transparency  like 
the  setting  sun  through  a  stained-glass  window. 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET  171 

It  was  very,  very  beautiful.  Peter  sat  on  the  bed 
and  looked  at  it,  as  a  devotee  before  a  shrine.  In  itself 
it  was  very  beautiful,  a  magic  thing  of  blue  colour  and 
deep  light  and  pure  shadow  and  clear,  lovely  form. 
Peter  loved  it  for  itself,  and  for  its  symbolic  character. 
For  it  was  a  symbol  of  the  world  of  great  loveliness 
that  did,  he  knew,  exist.  When  he  had  been  turned 
out  of  that  world  into  a  grey  and  dusty  place,  he  had 
kept  that  one  thing,  to  link  him  with  loveliness  and 
light.  Peter  was  a  materialist:  he  loved  things,  their 
shapes  and  colours,  with  a  passion  that  blinded  him  to 
the  beauty  of  the  colourless,  the  formless,  the  super- 
sensuous. 

He  slipped  his  fingers  up  the  chalice's  slim  stem  and 
round  its  cool  bowl,  and  smiled  for  pleasure  that  such 
a  thing  existed  —  had  existed  for  four  hundred  years 
—  to  gladden  the  world. 

"Well,  anyone  would  have  thought  I  should  have 
smashed  you  before  now,"  he  remarked,  apostrophis- 
ing it  proudly.  "  But  I  haven't.  I  shall  take  you  to 
Christie's  myself  to-morrow,  as  whole  as  you  were  the 
day  Leslie  gave  you  me." 

It  was  fortunate  that  Leslie  was  out  of  reach,  and 
would  not  hear  of  the  transaction.  If  he  had  been  in 
England,  Peter  would  have  felt  bound  to  offer  him 
the  goblet,  and  he  would  have  paid  for  it  too  enor- 
mous a  price  to  be  endured.  Leslie's  generosity  was 
sometimes  rather  overwhelming. 

When  Peter  took  Hilary  and  Peggy  the  cheque  he 
had  received,  and  told  them  what  he  had  received  it 
for,  Hilary  said,  "  I  suppose  these  things  must  be. 
It  was  fortunate  you  did  not  ask  my  advice,  Peter;  I 
should  have  hesitated  what  to  say.  It  is  uncommonly 
like  bartering  one's  soul  for  guineas.  To  what  we  are 
reduced ! " 


172  THE  LEE  SHORE 

He  was  an  artist,  and  cared  for  beautiful  goblets. 
He  would  much  rather  have  borrowed  the  money,  or 
had  it  given  him. 

Peggy,  who  was  not  an  artist,  said,  "  Oh,  Peter  dar- 
ling, how  sweet  of  you!  Now  I  really  can  pay  the 
butcher;  I've  had  to  hide. from  him  the  last  few  morn- 
ings, in  the  coal-hole.  You  dear  child,  I  hope  you 
won't  miss  that  nice  cup  too  much.  When  our  ship 
comes  in  you  shall  have  another." 

"  When"  sighed  Hilary,  who  was  feeling  over- 
worked that  evening.  (He  did  advertisement  pic- 
tures for  a  weekly  paper;  a  sordid  and  degrading  pur- 
suit. ) 

"  Well,"  said  Peggy  hopefully,  "  the  boarders  we 
have  now  really  do  pay  their  rent  the  way  they  never 
did  in  Venice.  That's  such  a  comfort.  If  only  Lar- 
ry's cough  gets  off  his  chest  without  turning  to  bron- 
chitis, I  will  be  quite  happy.  But  these  loathsome 
fogs!  And  that  odious  man  coming  round  wanting  to 
know  why  aren't  the  children  attending  school !  *  I'm 
sure/  I  said  to  him,  '  I  wish  they  were ;  the  house 
would  be  the  quieter  missing  them;  but  their  father 
insists  on  educating  them  himself,  because  he  won't 
let  them  mix  up  with  the  common  children  in  the 
school;  they're  by  way  of  being  little  gentry,  do  you 
see,'  I  said,  '  though  indeed  you  mightn't  think  it  to 
look  at  them.'  Oh  dear  me,  he  was  so  impolite;  he 
wouldn't  believe  that  Hilary  was  doing  his  duty  by 
them,  though  I  assured  him  that  he  read  them  all  the 
'Ancient  Mariner'  yesterday  morning  while  they 
watched  him  dress,  and  that  I  was  teaching  them  the 
alphabet  whenever  I  had  a  spare  minute.  But  noth- 
ing would  satisfy  him;  and  off  the  two  eldest  must  go 
to  the  Catholic  school  next  week  to  be  destroyed  by  the 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  GOBLET          .173 

fog  and  to  pick  up  with  all  the  ragamuffins  in  the  dis- 
trict." 

"  An  abominable,  cast-iron  system,"  Hilary  mur- 
mured mechanically.  "  Of  a  piece  with  all  the  other 
institutions  of  an  iniquitous  state." 

"And  what  do  you  think,"  added  Peggy,  who  was 
busy  putting  a  patch  in  Silvio's  knickerbockers,  "  Guy 
Vyvian  turned  up  out  of  nowhere  and  called  this  after- 
noon, bad  manners  to  him  for  a  waster.  When  he 
found  you  were  out,  Hilary,  he  asked  where  was  Rhoda ; 
he'd  no  notion  of  sitting  down  to  listen  to  me  talking. 
Ehoda  was  out  at  work  too,  of  course;  I  told  him  it 
wasn't  most  of  us  could  afford  to  play  round  in  the 
afternoons  the  way  he  did.  I  suppose  he'll  come  again, 
bothering  and  upsetting  the  child  just  when  she's  set- 
tling down  a  bit.  I've  thought  her  seeming  brighter 
lately;  she  likes  going  about  with  you,  Peter.  But 
there'll  be  pretty  doings  again  when  that  man  comes 
exciting  her." 

"  Vyvian  is  a  cad  and  a  low  fellow,"  Hilary  said, 
"  and  I  always  regretted  being  forced  into  partner- 
ship with  him;  but  I  suppose  one  can't  kick  one's  past 
acquaintances  from  the  door.  I,  at  least,  cannot. 
Some  people  can  and  do;  they  may  reconcile  it  with 
their  standards  of  decency  if  they  choose;  but  I  can- 
not. Vyvian  must  come  if  he  likes,  and  we  must  be 
hospitable  to  him.  We  must  ask  him  to  dinner  if  he 
comes  again." 

"  Yes,"  sniffed  Peggy,  "  I  can  see  him !  Sticking 
his  fork  into  the  potatoes  and  pretending  he  can't  get 
it  through!  Oh,  have  him  to  dinner  if  you  like;  he 
must  just  make  the  best  of  what  he  gets  if  he  comes. 
He'll  be  awfully  rude  to  the  rest,  too,  but  I'll  apolo- 
gise for  him  beforehand." 


174  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Though  a  cad,"  Hilary  observed,  "  Vyvian  is  less 
of  a  vacuous  fool  than  most  of  the  members  of  our 
present  delightful  house-party.  He  at  least  knows 
something  of  art  and  literature,  and  can  converse  with- 
out jarring  one's  taste  violently  by  his  every  word.  He 
is  not,  after  all,  a  Miss  Matthews  or  a  Mr.  Bridger. 
Apologies,  therefore,  are  scarcely  called  for,  perhaps." 

Peggy  said,  "  What  a  solemn  face,  Peter.  Is  it  the 
Vyvian  man,  or  the  beautiful  cup,  that  we've  never  half 
thanked  you  for  getting  rid  of  yet  ? " 

Peter  said,  "  It's  the  Vyvian  man.  He  makes  me 
feel  solemn.  You  see,  I  promised  Mrs.  Johnson 
faithfully  to  keep  Rhoda  out  of  his  clutches,  if  I  could." 

"  Darling,  what  a  silly  promise.  Oh,  of  course, 
we'll  all  do  our  best;  but  if  he  wants  to  clutch  her, 
the  silly  little  bird,  he'll  surely  do  it.  Not  that  I'm 
saying  he  does  want  to;  I  daresay  he  only  wants  to 
upset  her  and  make  her  his  slave  and  then  run  away 
again  to  his  own  place,  the  Judas." 

"  But  I  don't  want  him  to  do  that.  Rhoda  will  be 
unhappier  than  ever  again." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  wonder  if,  when  Rhoda  sees 
him  again  now,  she  sees  what  a  poor  creature  it  is, 
after  all.  It  may  be  a  turning-point  with  her,  and 
who  knows  will  she  perhaps  settle  down  afterwards  and 
be  a  reasonable  girl  and  darn  her  stockings  and  wear 
a  collar  ? " 

"  If  one  is  to  talk  of  stockings,"  began  Hilary,  "  I 
noticed  Caterina's  to-day,  and  really,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

Peggy  bit  off  her  cotton  and  murmured,  "  Oh  dear, 
oh  dear,  oh  dear,  what's  to  become  of  us  all  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    LOSS    OF    THE    SINGLE    STATE 

THE  man  Vyvian  came.  He  came  again  and  again, 
but  not  to  dinner.  Perhaps  he  suspected  about  the 
potatoes,  and  thought  that  they  would  not  even  be 
compensated  for  by  the  pleasure  of  sneering  at  the 
boarders.  He  came  in  the  evenings  and  sat  in  the  sit- 
ting-room and  drank  coffee  (the  only  thing  that  was 
well  cooked  in  Peggy's  household),  and  talked  to  Hil- 
ary, and  looked  at  Rhoda.  Rhoda,  embroidering  apple- 
boughs  on  a  green  dress-front,  shivered  and  trembled 
under  his  eyes. 

"  Now  I  know,"  thought  Peter,  seeing  Vyvian  look, 
"  what  villians  in  books  are  really  like.  Vyvian  is  just 
like  one;  specially  about  the  eyes."  He  was  sitting 
near  Rhoda,  playing  that  sort  of  patience  called  cal- 
cul,  distinguished  from  other  patiences  by  the  fact  that 
it  comes  out ;  that  was  why  Peter  liked  it.  He  had  re- 
fused to-night  to  join  in  the  game  the  others  were  play- 
ing, which  was  animal  grab,  though  usually  he  enjoyed 
it  very  much.  Peter  liked  games,  though  he  seldom 
won  them.  But  this  evening  he  played  patience  by 
himself  and  sat  by  Rhoda  and  consulted  her  at  crucial 
moments,  and  babbled  of  many  things  and  knew  when- 
ever Vyvian  looked  and  Rhoda  shook.  At  half-past 
nine  Vyvian  stopped  talking  to  Hilary  and  crossed  the 
room  and  took  the  arm-chair  on  Rhoda's  other  side. 

"  Enthralling  evenings  you  spend  here,"  he  re- 
marked, including  in  his  glance  Rhoda's  embroidery, 
Peter's  patience,  and  the  animal  grab  table,  from  which 

175 


176  THE  LEE  SHORE 

cheerfully  matter-of-fact   farmyard   and   jungle   cries 
proceeded  with  spirit. 

Ehoda  said  nothing.  Her  head  was  bent  over  her 
work.  The  next  moment  she  pricked  her  finger  vio- 
lently, and  started.  Before  she  could  get  her  handker- 
chief out,  Vyvian  had  his,  and  was  enveloping  her  small 
hand  in  it. 

"  Too  bad,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  the  farm- 
yard cries  drowned  it  as  far  as  Peter  was  concerned. 
"  Poor  little  finger."  He  held  it  and  the  handkerchief 
closely  in  his  two  hands.  .l*:-**1"** 

Ehoda,  her  colour  flooding  and  ebbing  over  her  thin 
face  and  thin  neck  down  to  the  insertion  yoke  of  her 
evening  blouse,  trembled  like  a  captured  bird.  Her 
eyes  fell  from  his  look ;  a  bold,  bad  look  Peter  thought, 
finding  literary  terminology  appropriate. 

The  next  moment  the  little  table  on  which  Peter  was 
playing  toppled  over  onto  the  floor  with  a  small  crash, 
and  all  his  cards  were  scattered  on  the  carpet. 

Ehoda  started  and  looked  round,  pulling  her  hand 
away  as  if  a  spell  was  broken. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Peter  regretfully,  "  it  was  just 
on  coming  out,  too.  I  shan't  try  again  to-night;  it's 
not  my  night,  obviously."  He  was  picking  up  the 
cards.  Ehoda  watched  him  silently. 

"  Do  you  know  calcul,  Mr.  Vyvian  ? "  Peter  en- 
quired, collecting  scattered  portions  of  the  pack  from 
under  the  arm-chair. 

Mr.  Vyvian  stared  at  Peter's  back,  which  was  the 
part  of  him  most  visible  at  the  moment. 

"  I  really  can't  say  I  have  the  pleasure ;  no."  (That, 
Peter  felt  certain,  was  an  insolent  drawl.) 

"  Would  you  like  to  learn  it  ?  "  said  Peter  politely. 
"  Are  you  fond  of  patience  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Vyvian. 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE    177 


u 


Oh!  Then  you  would  like  calcul.  People  who 
are  really  fond  of  other  patiences  don't;  they  despise 
it  because  it  comes  out.  I  don't  like  any  other  sort 
of  patience ;  I'm  not  clever  enough ;  so  I  like  this.  Let 
me  teach  you,  may  I  ?  " 

Vyvian  got  up. 

"  Thanks ;  you're  quite  too  kind.  On  the  whole, 
I  think  I  can  conduct  my  life  without  any  form  of 
patience,  even  one  which  comes  out." 

"  You  have  a  turn,  then,  Miss  Johnson,"  said  Peter, 
arranging  the  cards.  "  Perhaps  it'll  come  out  for  you, 
though  it  won't  for  me  to-night." 

"  Since  you  are  all  so  profitably  occupied,"  said 
Vyvian,  "  I  think  I  will  say  good  night." 

Peter  said,  "  Oh,  must  you  ?  .  .  .  Good  night,  then. 
We  play  calcul  most  nights,  so  you  can  learn  it  some 
other  time  if  you'd  like  to." 

"  A  delightful  prospect,"  .Vyvian  murmured,  his 
glance  again  comprehensively  wandering  round  the 
room.  "  A  happy  family  party  you  seem  here.  .  .  . 
Good  night."  He  bent  over  Rhoda  with  his  ironic  po- 
liteness. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  would  come  out 
with  me  to-morrow  evening  to  a  theatre.  .  .  .  But 
since  your  evenings  seem  to  be  so  pleasantly  filled  other- 
wise .  .  ." 

She  looked  up  at  him  a  moment,  wavered,  met  his 
dark  eyes,  was  caught  by  the  old  domination,  and  swept 
off  her  feet  as  of  old. 

"  Oh,  ...  I  should  like  to  come.  .  .  ."  She  was 
a  little  breathless. 

"  Good !  I  will  call  for  you  then,  at  seven,  and 
we  will  dine  together.  Au  revoir." 

"  He  swept  her  a  mocking  bow  and  was  gone,"  Peter 
murmured  to  himself. 


178  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Then  lie  looked  at  Rhoda,  and  found  her  eyes  upon 
his  face,  wide,  frightened,  bewildered,  and  knew  in  a 
flash  that  she  had  never  meant  to  consent  to  go  out 
with  Vyvian,  that  she  had  been  caught  by  the  old 
power  he  had  over  her  and  swept  off  her  feet.  That 
knowledge  gave  him  confidence,  and  he  could  say, 
"  You  don't  want  to  go,  do  you  ?  Let  me  go  after  him 
and  tell  him." 

"  Oh,"  she  pressed  her  hands  together  in  front  of 
her.  "  But  I  must  go  —  I  said  I  would." 

Peter  was  on  his  feet  and  out  of  the  door  in  a  second. 
He  saw  Vyvian  in  the  passage  downstairs,  putting  on 
his  coat.  He  spoke  from  half-way  down  the  stairs : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Johnson  asks  me  to  say  she  is  sorry  she 
can't  go  with  you  to-morrow  night  after  all;  she  finds 
she  has  another  engagement." 

Vyvian  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  a  slight  smile 
lifting  his  lip. 

"  Really  ? "  was  all  he  said.  "  All  the  same,  I  think 
I  will  call  at  seven  and  try  to  persuade  her  to  change 
her  mind  again.  Good  night." 

As  plainly  as  possible  he  had  said  to  Peter,  "  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  lying."  Peter  had  no  particular  ob- 
jection to  his  believing  that ;  he  was  not  proud ;  but  he 
did  object  to  his  calling  at  seven  and  trying  to  persuade 
Rhoda  to  change  her  mind  again,  for  he  believed  that 
that  would  be  a  task  easy  of  achievement. 

He  went  back  into  the  sitting-room.  Rhoda  was  sit- 
ting still,  her  hands  twisted  together  on  the  green  serge 
on  her  lap.  Peter  sat  down  by  her  and  said,  "  Will 
you  come  out  with  me  instead  to-morrow  evening  ? " 
and  she  looked  at  him,  her  teeth  clenched  over  her  lower 
lip  as  if  to  steady  it,  and  said  after  a  moment,  forlornly, 
"  If  you  like." 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE    179 

It  was  so  much  less  exciting  than  going  with  Vyvian 
would  have  been,  that  Peter  felt  compunction. 

"  You  shall  choose  the  play,"  he  said.  "  '  Peter 
Pan,'  do  you  think  ?  Or  something  funny  — *  The  Sins 
of  Society,'  or  something  ? " 

Rhoda  whispered  "  Anything,"  nearly  on  the  edge 
of  tears.  A  vividness  had  flashed  again  into  her  grey 
life,  and  she  was  trying  to  quench  it.  She  had  heroic- 
ally, though  as  an  afterthought,  flung  an  extinguishing 
douche  of  water  at  it ;  but  now  that  she  had  done  so  she 
was  melting  into  unheroic  self-pity. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  she  said  shakily,  and  did  so, 
feeling  for  her  pocket-handkerchief  as  she  crossed  the 
room. 

At  a  quarter  to  seven  the  next  evening  Peter  looked 
for  Ehoda,  thinking  it  well  that  they  should  be  out 
of  the  house  by  seven  o'clock,  but  couldn't  find  her, 
till  Miss  Clegson  said  she  had  met  her  "  going 
into  church  "  as  she  herself  came  out.  Peter  went  to 
the  church  to  find  her.  Rhoda  didn't  as  a  rule  frequent 
churches,  not  believing  in  the  creeds  they  taught;  but 
even  to  the  unbelieving  a  church  is  often  a  refuge. 

Peter,  coming  into  the  great  dim  place  out  of  the 
wet  fog,  found  it  again,  as  he  had  long  since  known 
it  to  be,  a  refuge  from  fogs  and  other  ills  of  living. 
Far  up,  the  seven  lamps  that  never  go  out  burned  dimly 
through  the  blurred  air.  It  was  a  gaudy  place,  no 
doubt;  over-decorated;  a  church  for  the  poor,  who  love 
gaudiness.  Perhaps  Peter  too  loved  gaudiness.  Any- 
how, he  loved  this  place  and  its  seven  lamps  and  its 
shrines  and  statued  saints. 

Surely,  whatever  one  believed  of  the  mysterious 
world  and  of  all  the  other  mysterious  worlds  that 
might  be  floating  behind  the  veils,  surely  here  was  a 


i8o  THE  LEE  SHORE 

very  present  help  in  trouble,  a  luminous  brightness 
shining  in  a  fog-choked  world. 

Peter,  sitting  by  the  door,  sank  into  a  great  peace. 
Half-way  up  the  church  he  saw  Rhoda  sitting  very 
still.  She  too  was  looking  up  the  church  towards  the 
lamps  and  the  altar  beyond  them. 

Presently  a  cassocked  sacristan  came  and  lit  the  ves~ 
per  lights,  for  evensong  was  to  be  at  seven,  and  the 
altar  blazed  out,  an  unearthly  brilliance  in  the  dim 
place.  The  low  murmur  of  voices  (a  patient  priest 
had  been  hearing  confessions  for  an  hour)  ceased,  and 
people  began  coming  in  one  by  one  for  service.  Rhoda 
shivered  a  little,  and  got  up  and  came  down  the  church. 
Peter  joined  her  at  the  door,  and  they  passed  shivering 
into  the  fog  together. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you,"  said  Peter,  when  they 
were  out  in  the  alley  that  led  to  the  church  door. 

"  It's  time  we  went,  isn't  it,"  she  said  apathetically. 

Then  she  added,  inconsequently,  "  The  church 
seems  the  only  place  where  one  can  find  a  bit  of  peace. 
I  can't  think  why,  when  probably  it's  all  a  fairy-tale." 

"  I  suppose  that's  why,"  said  Peter.  "  Fairyland 
is  the  most  peaceful  country  there  is." 

"  You  can't  get  peace  out  of  what's  not  true,"  Rhoda 
insisted  querulously. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Besides,  fairy-tales  aren't 
necessarily  untrue,  do  you  think?  I  don't  mean  that, 
when  I  call  what  churches  teach  a  fairy-tale.  I  mean 
it's  beautiful  and  romantic  and  full  of  light  and  col- 
our and  wonderful  things  happening.  And  it's  prob- 
ably the  truer  for  that." 

'"  D'you  believe  it  all  ? "  queried  Rhoda ;  but  he 
couldn't  answer  her  as  to  that. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  do  know  exactly  what  I 
believe.  I  can't  think  how  anyone  does.  But  yes,  I 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE    181 

think  I  like  to  believe  in  those  things ;  they're  too  beau- 
tiful not  to  be  true." 

"  It's  the  ugly  things  that  are  true,"  she  said,  cough- 
ing in  the  fog. 

"  Why,  yes,  the  ugly  things  and  the  beautiful ;  God 
and  the  devil,  if  one  puts  it  like  that.  Oh,  yes,  I  be- 
lieve very  much  in  the  devil;  I  can't  believe  that  any 
street  of  houses  could  look  quite  like  this  without  the 
help  of  someone  utterly  given  over  to  evil  thinking. 
We  aren't,  you  see ;  none  of  us  are  ugly  enough  in  our 
minds  to  have  thought  out  some  of  the  things  one  sees ; 
so  there  must  be  a  devil." 

Rhoda  was  silent.  He  thought  she  was  crying.  He 
said  gently,  "  I  say,  would  you  like  to  come  out  to-night, 
or  would  you  rather  be  quiet  at  home  ?  "  It  would  be 
safe  to  return  home  by  half-past  seven,  he  thought. 

She  said,  in  a  small  muffled  voice,  that  she  didn't 
care. 

A  tall  figure  passed  by  them  in  the  narrow  alley, 
looming  through  the  fog.  Rhoda  started,  and  shrank 
back  against  the  brick  wall,  clutching  Peter's  arm. 
The  next  moment  the  figure  passed  into  the  circle  of 
light  thrown  down  by  a  high  lamp  that  glimmered 
over  a  Robbia-esque  plaque  shrine  let  into  the  wall, 
and  they  saw  that  it  was  a  cassocked  priest  from  the 
clergy-house  going  into  church.  Rhoda  let  out  her 
breath  faintly  in  a  sigh,  and  her  fingers  fell  from  Peter's 
coat-sleeve. 

"  Oh,"  she  whispered,  "  I'm  frightened.  .  .  .  Let's 
stay  close  to  the  church;  just  outside  the  door,  where 
we  can  see  the  light  and  hear  the  music.  I  don't  want 
to  go  out  into  the  streets  to-night,  Peter,  I  want  to 
stay  here.  I'm  ...  so  frightened." 

"  Come  inside,"  suggested  Peter,  as  they  turned  back 
to  the  church.  "  It  would  be  warmer." 


182  THE  LEE  SHORE 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "No.  I'd  rather  be  out- 
side. I  don't  belong  in  there." 

Peter  said,  "Why  not?"  and  she  told  him,  "Be- 
cause for  me  it's  the  ugly  things  that  are  true." 

So  together  they  stood  in  the  porch,  outside  the 
great  oak  door,  and  heard  the  sound  of  singing  stealing 
out,  fog-softened,  and  smelt  the  smell  of  incense  (it 
was  the  festal  service  of  some  saint)  that  pierced  the 
thick  air  with  its  pungent  sweetness. 

They  sat  down  on  the  seat  in  the  porch,  and  Rhoda 
shivered,  not  with  cold,  and  Peter  waited  by  her  very 
patiently,  knowing  that  she  needed  him  as  she  had 
never  needed  him  before. 

She  told  him  so.  "  You  don't  mind  staying,  Peter  ? 
I  feel  safer  with  you  than  with  anyone  else.  .  .  .  You 
see,  I'm  afraid.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  is  I 
feel.  When  he  looks  at  me  it's  as  if  he  was  drawing 
me  and  dragging  me,  and  I  feel  I  must  get  up  and  fol- 
low him  wherever  he  goes.  It's  always  been  like  that, 
since  first  I  met  him,  more  than  a  year  ago.  He  made 
me  care;  he  made  me  worship* the  ground  he  walked 
on;  if  he'd  thrown  me  down  and  kicked  me,  I'd  have 
let  him.  But  he  never  cared  himself;  I  know  that 
now.  I've  known  it  a  long  time.  And  I've  vowed  to 
myself,  and  I  vowed  to  mother  when  she  lay  dying, 
that  I  wouldn't  let  him  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
me.  He  frightens  me,  because  he  can  twist  me  round 
his  finger  and  make  me  care  so  ...  and  it  hurts.  .  .  . 
And  he's  just  playing;  he'll  never  really  care.  But  for 
all  I  know  that,  I  know  he  can  get  me  whenever  he 
wants  me.  And  he's  come  back  again  to  amuse  himself 
seeing  me  worship  him  .  .  .  and  he'll  make  me  follow 
him  about,  and  all  the  time  he'll  be  thinking  me  a  little 
fool,  and  I  shall  know  it  ...  but  I  can't  help  it, 
Peter,  I  can't  help  it.  ...  I've  nothing  to  hold  on  to, 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE    183 

to  save  me.  If  I  could  be  religious,  if  I  could  pray, 
like  the  people  in  there  .  .  .  but  he  says  there's  noth- 
ing in  that ;  he's  made  me  believe  like  him,  and  I  some- 
times think  he  only  believes  in  himself,  and  that's  why 
I  can  only  believe  in  him  too.  So  I've  got  nothing  in 
the  world  to  hold  on  to,  and  I  shall  be  carried  away 
and  drowned.  .  .  ." 

She  was  crying  with  strangled  sobbings,  her  face 
in  her  thin  hands. 

Peter's  arm  was  put  gently  about  her  shoulders,  com- 
forting her. 

"  No,  you  won't,  Rhoda.  Rhoda  dear,  you  won't  be 
carried  away,  because  I  shall  be  here,  holding  you. 
Is  that  any  help  at  all  ?  " 

He  felt  her  relax  beneath  his  arm  and  lean  back 
against  him ;  he  heard  her  whisper,  "  Yes ;  oh,  yes.  If 
I  can  hold  onto  you,  Peter,  I  shall  feel  safe." 

"  Hold  on,  then,"  said  Peter,  "  as  tight  as  you 
like." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wet  eyes  and  he  felt 
the  claim  and  the  appeal  of  her  piercing  straight  into 
his  heart. 

"  I  could  care  .  .  ."  she  whispered.  "  Are  you 
sure,  Peter  ?  " 

His  arm  tightened  about  her.  He  hadn't  meant 
precisely  what  she  had  understood  him  to  mean;  at 
least,  he  hadn't  translated  his  purpose  to  help  her  to 
the  uttermost  into  a  specified  relation,  as  she  was  doing ; 
but  if  the  purpose,  to  be  fulfilled,  had  to  be  so  trans- 
lated, he  was  ready  for  that  too.  So  he  said,  "  Quite 
sure,  Rhoda.  I  want  to  be  the  most  to  you  that  you'll 
let  me  be,"  and  her  face  was  hidden  against  his  coat, 
and  her  tension  relaxed  utterly,  'and  she  murmured, 
"  Oh,  I  can  be  safe  like  that" 

So  they  sat  in  silence  together,  between  the  lit  sane- 


184  THE  LEE  SHORE 

tuary  and  the  desolate  night,  and  heard,  as  from  a  long 
way  off,  the  sound  of  chanting :  — 

"Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace:  ac- 
cording to  thy  word; 
"For  mine  eyes  have  seen  .  .  ." 

Later  on,  Ehoda  said,  quiet  and  happy  now,  "  I've 
thought  you  cared,  Peter,  for  some  time.  And  last 
night,  when  I  saw  you  hated  Guy  to  be  near  me,  I  felt 
sure.  But  I  feel  I've  so  little  to  give  you.  So  much 
of  me  is  burnt  away  and  spoilt.  But  it'll  come  back, 
Peter,  I  think,  if  you  love  me.  I  do  love  you,  very 
much ;  you've  been  such  a  dear  to  me  always,  from  the 
very  first  night  at  the  Palazzo,  when  you  spoke  to  me 
and  smiled.  Only  I  couldn't  think  of  anyone  but  Guy 
then.  But  lately  I've  been  thinking,  '  Peter's  worth 
a  hundred  Guys,  and  if  only  I  could  care  for  him,  I 
should  feel  safe.'  And  I  do  care,  ever  so  much ;  and  if 
it's  a  different  sort  of  caring  from  what  I've  felt  for 
Guy,  it's  a  better  sort.  That's  a  bad,  black  sort,  that 
hurts ;  I  never  want  any  more  of  that.  Caring  for  you 
will  keep  me  from  that,  Peter."  .  i 

"  It's  dear  of  you  to  care  for  me  at  all,"  said  Peter. 
"  And  we  won't  let  Guy  come  near  us,  now  or  ever." 

"  You  hate  him,  don't  you  ? "  said  Ehoda.  "  I  know 
you  do." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  that  it's  as  bad  as  all  that. 
He's  more  funny  than  anything  else,  it  seems  to  me. 
He  might  have  walked  straight  out  of  a  novel ;  he  does 
all  the  things  they  do  in  books,  you  know,  and  that  one 
never  thinks  people  really  do  outside  them.  He  sneers 
insolently.  I  watch  him  sometimes,  to  see  how  it's 
done.  He  curls  his  upper  lip,  too,  when  he's  feeling 
contemptuous;  that's  another  nice  trick  that  I  should 
like  to  acquire.  Oh,  he's  quite  an  interesting  study 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE     185 

really.  You've  taken  him  wrong,  you  know.  You've 
taken  him  seriously.  He's  not  meant  for  that." 

"  Oh,"  said  Ehoda,  vaguely  uncomprehending. 
"  You  are  a  funny  boy,  Peter.  You  do  talk  so.  ...  I 
never  know  if  you  mean  half  you  say." 

"  About  two-thirds,  I  think,"  said  Peter.  "  The  rest 
is  lies.  We  all  lie  in  my  family,  and  not  well  either, 
because  we're  rather  weak  in  the  intellect.  .  .  .  Now 
do  you  feel  like  supper,  because  I  do  ?  Let's  come  home 
and  have  it,  shall  we  ?  " 

They  went  home  through  the  fog,  Ehoda  clinging 
to  Peter's  arm  as  to  an  anchor  in  a  sweeping  sea.  A 
great  peace  and  security  possessed  her;  she  no  longer 
started  at  the  tall  figures  that  loomed  by. 

They  let  themselves  into  51  Brook  Street,  and  blinked 
at  one  another  in  the  lamp-lit,  linoleumed  little  hall. 
Rhoda  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  said,  "  What 
a  fright  I  am !  "  seeing  her  tear-stained  countenance 
and  straggling  fog-wet  locks.  The  dinner-bell  rang, 
and  she  ran  upstairs  to  tidy  herself.  Peter  and  she 
came  into  the  dining-room  together,  during  the  soup. 

"  Let's  tell  them  at  once,  Peter,"  whispered  Khoda ; 
so  Peter  obediently  said,  as  he  sat  down  by  Peggy, 
"  Rhoda  and  I  have  just  settled  to  marry." 

"Marry'?"  Hilary  queried,  from  the  end  of  the  ta- 
ble. "  Marry  whom  ? "  And  Ehoda,  blushing, 
laughed  for  the  first  time  for  some  days. 

Peggy  said,  "  Don't  be  silly,  Hilary.  Each  other, 
of  course,  the  darlings  mean.  Well,  well,  and  to  think 
I  never  guessed  that  all  this  time !  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Clegson,  "  I  did,  Mrs.  Margerison ; 
I  had  a  very  shrewd  suspicion,  I  assure  you.  And 
this  evening,  when  Mr.  Peter  asked  me  where  Miss 
Johnson  was  gone,  and  I  told  him  into  church,  and 
he  followed  her  straight  away,  I  said  to  myself,  l  Well, 


i86  THE  LEE  SHORE 

that  looks  like  something  we  all  know  about  very  well ! ' 
I  didn't  say  it  to  anyone  else;  I  wouldn't  breathe  a 
word  till  all  was  settled ;  I  knew  you  asked  me  in  con- 
fidence, Mr.  Peter;  but  I  thought  the  more.  I  was 
always  one  to  see  things;  they  used  to  tell  me  I  could 
see  through  a  stone  wall.  Well,  I'm  sure  I  offer  my 
congratulations  to  both  of  you." 

"  And  I  too,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Miss  Matthews, 
the  lady  who  did  not  attend  ritualistic  churches.  "  Do 
I  understand  that  the  happy  arrangement  was  made 
in  church,  Miss  Johnson?  I  gather  from  Miss  Cleg- 
son  that  Mr.  Peter  followed  you  there." 

"  Oh,  not  inside,  Miss  Matthews,"  said  Ehoda,  blush- 
ing again,  and  looking  rather  pretty.  "  In  the  porch, 
we  were." 

Miss  Matthews  sniffed  faintly.  Such  goings-on 
might,  she  conveyed,  be  expected  in  the  porch  of  St. 
Austin's,  with  all  that  incense  coming  through  the  door, 
and  all  that  confessing  going  on  inside. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Bridger,  "  we  ought  to  have  some 
champagne  to  drink  success  to  the  happy  event.  Short 
of  that,  let  us  fill  the  festive  bumpers  with  the  flowing 
lemonade.  Pass  the  jug  down.  Here's  to  you,  Miss 
Ehoda;  here's  to  you,  Mr.  Peter  Margerison.  May 
you  both  be  as  happy  as  you  deserve.  No  one  will  want 
me  to  wish  you  anything  better  than  that,  I'm  sure." 

"  Here's  luck,  you  dears,"  said  Peggy,  drinking. 
Engagements  in  general  delighted  her,  and  Peter's  in 
particular.  And  poor  little  Ehoda  was  looking  so 
bright  and  happy  at  last.  Peggy  wouldn't  have  taken 
it  upon  herself  to  call  it  a  remarkably  suitable  alliance 
had  she  been  asked;  but  then  she  hadn't  been  asked, 
and  Peter  was  such  a  sweet-natured,  loving,  lovable 
dear  that  he  would  get  on  with  anyone,  and  Ehoda, 
though  sometimes  a  silly  and  sometimes  fractious,  was 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE     187 

a  dear  little  girl  too.  The  two  facts  that  would  have 
occurred  to  some  sisters-in-law,  that  they  had  extremely 
few  pennies  between  them,  and  that  Rhoda  wasn't  pre- 
cisely of  Peter's  gentle  extraction,  didn't  bother  Peggy 
at  all. 

They  occurred,  however,  to  Hilary.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  Peter  would  now  require  all  his  slender  earn- 
ings for  himself  and  wife,  which  was  awkward;  also 
that  Peter  really  needn't  have  looked  down  to  the  lower 
middle  classes  for  a  wife.  Hilary  believed  in  gentle 
birth ;  through  all  his  vicissitudes  a  pathetic  pride  of 
breeding  clung  to  him.  One  might  be  down  at  heels; 
one  might  be  reduced  to  sordid  means  of  livelihood, 
even  to  shady  schemes  for  enlarging  one's  income;  but 
once  a  gentleman  always  so,  and  one  was  not  to  be 
ranked  with  the  bounders,  the  Vyvians,  the  wealthy 
Leslies  even. 

Hilary  looked  resigned  and  weary.  Why  should 
Peter  want  to  marry  a  commonplace  and  penniless  little 
nobody,  and  not  so  very  pretty  either,  though  she  looked 
nice  and  bright  when  she  was  animated,  as  now. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  when  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

Peter  looked  across  at  Rhoda. 

"  I  should  hope  very  soon,"  he  said.  It  was  ob- 
viously safer,  and  safety  was  the  object,  to  have  it  very 
soon. 

"  How  soon  can  one  get  married  ?  There  have  to 
be  banns  and  so  on,  don't  there?  The  third  time  of 
asking  —  that  brings  it  to  the  eighteenth  of  December. 
What  about  the  nineteenth,  Rhoda  ?  That's  a  Monday." 

"  Really,  Peter  .  .  ."  Rhoda  blushed  more  than 
ever.  "  That  seems  awfully  soon." 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  blind  to  the  unusualness  of  such 
a  discussion  at  the  dinner-table,  "  the  sooner  the  better, 
don't  £ou  think  ?  There's  nothing  to  wait  for.  I  don't 


i88  THE  LEE  SHORE 

suppose  we  shall  ever  have  more  money  to  do  it  on 
than  we  have  now.  I  know  of  a  man  who  waited  years 
and  years  because  he  thought  he  hadn't  got  quite 
enough,  and  he  got  a  little  more  each  year,  and  at  the 
end  of  six  years  he  thought  to  double  his  fortune  by 
putting  it  all  on  a  winner,  because  he  was  getting  so 
impatient.  And  the  horse  came  in  last.  So  the  girl 
broke  it  off  and  married  someone  else,  and  the  man's 
heart  broke  and  he  took  to  drink." 

"  Well  ? "  enquired  Miss  Matthews,  who  thought 
Peter  habitually  irrelevant  in  his  remarks. 

"  Well  —  so  let's  be  married  on  December  the  nine- 
teenth." 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Rhoda,  "  we're  quite  embarrass- 
ing everybody,  being  so  public.  Let's  settle  it  after- 
wards, Peter,  when  we're  alone." 

But  she  too  meant  to  have  it  as  soon  as  might  be 
after  the  third  time  of  asking;  it  was  safer,  much 
safer,  so. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Clegson,  as  the  ladies  rose  from 
the  table,  "  now  we're  going  to  carry  Miss  Johnson 
away  to  tell  us  all  about  it ;  and  we'll  leave  Mr.  Peter 
to  tell  you  gentlemen  his  secrets.  And  after  that  we'll 
have  a  good  round  game;  but  two  of  the  present  com- 
pany can  be  left  out  if  they  like  better  to  sit  in  the  win- 
dow-seat !  " 

But  when  the  other  gentlemen  repaired  to  the  draw- 
ing-room for  the  good  round  game,  Peter  stayed  behind, 
with  Hilary.  He  didn't  want  to  talk  or  be  talked  to,  only 
to  stay  where  he  was  and  not  to  have  to  sit  in  the  win- 
dow-seat. 

"  The  insufferable  vulgarity  of  this  class  of  person 
on  this  subject  is  really  the  limit,"  Hilary  remarked 
plaintively,  as  if  it  had  jarred  him  beyond  endurance. 

"  They're  awfully  kind,  aren't  they,"  said  Peter,  who 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  SINGLE  STATE     189 

looked  tired.  Then  he  laughed  to  himself.  Hilary 
looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  your  own  business,  Peter. 
But  I  must  confess  I  am  surprised.  I  had  literally 
no  idea  you  had  such  a  step  in  mind." 

"  I  hadn't  any  idea  either,"  Peter  admitted  frankly. 
"  I  thought  of  it  quite  suddenly.  But  I  think  it  is 
a  good  plan,  you  know.  Of  course,"  he  added,  word- 
ing what  he  read  in  Hilary's  face,  "  I  know  my  life 
will  cost  me  more.  But  I  think  it  is  worth  while." 

"  It's  quite  entirely  your  own  business,"  Hilary  said 
again,  throwing  responsibility  from  him  with  a  gesture 
of  the  hands.  Then  he  leant  back  and  shut  his  eyes. 

Peter  looked  at  him  as  he  lay  in  the  arm-chair  and 
smoked;  his  eyes  rested  on  the  jaded,  still  beautiful 
face,  the  dark  lock  of  hair  falling  a  little  over  the  tired 
forehead,  the  brown  velvet  smoking  coat  and  large  red 
silk  tie.  He  knew  that  he  had  hurt  and  puzzled  Hilary. 
And  he  knew  that  Hilary  wouldn't  understand  if  he 
were  to  explain  what  he  couldn't  ever  explain.  At 
the  most  he  would  say,  "  It  is  Peter  all  over,"  and 
shrug  his  shoulders  at  Peter  and  Peter's  vagaries. 

A  great  desire  to  smooth  Hilary's  difficult  road, 
as  far  as  might  be,  caught  and  held  Peter.  Poor  old 
Hilary!  He  was  so  frightfully  tired  of  life  and  its 
struggles ;  tired  of  being  a  Have-Not. 

To  help  the  other  Have-Nots,  to  put  pleasant  things 
into  their  hands  as  far  as  might  be,  seemed  to  Peter 
at  this  moment  the  thing  for  which  one  existed.  It 
is  obviously  the  business  of  the  Have-Nots  to  do  that 
for  one  another;  for  the  Haves  do  not  know  or  under- 
stand. It  is  the  Have-Nots  who  must  give  and  give 
and  give,  with  emptying  hands ;  for  from  him  that  hath 
not  shall  be  taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath. 

Peter  went  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room  to  play 
animal  grab. 


CHAPTER  XIV- 

PETER,  E.HODA,  AND  LUCY 

Mr.  Vyvian  called  at  51  Brook  Street  one 
evening  and  was  informed  by  the  assembled  company 
that  Miss  Johnson  had  got  engaged  to  Mr.  Peter 
Margerison,  he  sneered  a  little  and  wished  them  both 
joy,  and  said  good-night  rather  markedly  early. 

"  He  won't  come  back,"  said  Rhoda  in  Peter's  ear 
when  he  had  gone.  "  He's  gone  for  good."  She  sat 
very  still,  realising  it,  and  shivered  a  little.  Then, 
casting  off  that  old  chain  of  the  past,  she  turned  on 
Peter  eyes  full  of  tears  and  affection. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  forget  all  about  him  and  be 
happy,"  she  whispered.  "  He's  not  going  to  be  part 
of  my  life  any  more  at  all.  How  queer  that  seems !  " 

If  in  her  heart  she  wished  a  little  that  Peter  had 
had  Guy  Vyvian's  handsome  face  and  person  (Peter 
had  no  presence:  one  might  overlook  him;  the  only 
vivid  note  about  him,  except  when  he  smiled,  was  the 
blue  of  his  eyes),  she  stifled  the  wish  with  firm  pressure. 
What  were  looks,  after  all?  And  that  bold,  hand- 
some stare  of  Guy's  had  burnt  and  hurt;  in  the  blue 
of  Peter's  she  found  healing  and  coolness,  as  one  finds 
it  in  a  summer  sea. 

So,  after  the  third  time  of  asking,  they  were  married, 
in  St.  Austin's  Church,  and  Rhoda,  coming  out  of  it, 
whispered  to  Peter,  "  Some  of  the  beautiful  things 
are  true  after  all,  I  do  believe ;  "  and  he  smiled  at  her 
and  said,  "  Of  course  they  are." 

They  left  the  boarding-house,  because  Rhoda  was 
190 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        191 

tired  of  the  boarders  and  wanted  a  little  place  to  them- 
selves. Peter,  who  didn't  really  care,  but  who  would 
have  rather  liked  to  stay  and  be  with  Peggy  and  Hilary, 
pretended  that  he  too  wanted  a  little  place  to  them- 
selves. So  they  took  lodgings  in  Greville  Street,  which 
runs  out  of  Brook  Street.  Rhoda  gave  up  her  work 
and  settled  down  to  keep  house  and  do  needlework. 
They  kept  a  canary  in  the  sitting-room,  and  a  kitten 
with  a  blue  bow,  and  Rhoda  took  to  wearing  blue  bows 
in  her  own  hair,  and  sewed  all  the  buttons  on  her  frocks 
and  darned  her  gloves  and  stockings  and  Peter's  socks, 
and  devoted  herself  to  household  economy,  a  subject  in 
which  her  mother  had  always  tried  to  interest  her  with- 
out success.  Ehoda  thought  it  a  great  relief  to  have 
escaped  from  the  tiresome  boarders  who  chattered  so 
about  things  they  knew  nothing  about,  and  from  her 
own  daily  drudgery,  that  had  tired  her  back.  (She 
had  been  a  typist.)  It  was  nice  to  be  able  to  sit  at 
peace  with  one's  needlework  and  one's  own  reflections, 
and  have  Peter,  who  was  always  kind  and  friendly  and 
cheerful,  to  brighten  breakfast  and  leave  her  in  peace 
during  the  day  and  come  in  again  to  brighten  the  even- 
ing. Peter's  chatter  didn't  worry  her,  though  she  often 
thought  it  childish  and  singularly  inconsequent ;  Peter, 
of  course,  was  only  a  boy,  though  such  a  dear,  kind, 
affectionate  boy.  He  would  spend  his  evenings  teasing 
the  kitten  and  retying  the  blue  bow,  or  lying  on  the  rug 
before  the  fire,  talking  nonsense  which  made  Khoda 
laugh  even  when  she  was  feeling  low.  Sometimes  they 
would  go  to  Brook  Street  and  spend  the  evening  there ; 
and  often  Hilary  would  drop  in  and  smoke  with  Peter ; 
only  Rhoda  didn't  much  care  for  these  evenings,  for 
she  never  felt  at  ease  with  Hilary,  who  wasn't  at  ease 
with  her  either.  The  uncultured  young  creatures  of 
either  sex  never  quite  knew  where  they  were  with  the 


192  THE  LEE  SHORE 

aesthetic  Hilary ;  at  any  moment  they  might  tread  heav- 
ily on  his  sensitive  susceptibilities  and  make  him  wince 
visibly,  and  no  one  likes  being  winced  at.  Rhoda  in 
particular  was  very  sensitive;  she  thought  Hilary  ill- 
mannered  and  conceited,  and  vaguely  resented  his  atti- 
tude towards  her  without  understanding  it,  for  (now  that 
she  was  removed  from  the  crushing  influence  of  a  person 
who  had  always  ruthlessly  shown  her  her  limitations 
and  follies)  she  didn't  think  of  herself  as  uncultured, 
she  with  her  poetical  and  artistic  tastes,  sharpened  and 
refined  by  contact  with  the  culture  of  Guy  Vyvian  and 
broadened  by  acquaintance  with  the  art  of  foreign  cities. 
On  the  contrary,  she  felt  in  herself  yearnings  for  a 
fuller  and  freer  life  of  beauty  and  grace.  She  wasn't 
sure  that  Peter  ever  felt  such,  yearnings;  he  seemed 
quite  contented  with  the  ugly  rooms  in  the  ugly  street, 
and  the  dingy  lace  curtains  and  impossible  pictures ;  he 
could  make  a  joke  of  it  all ;  and  things  one  could  make 
a  joke  of  couldn't  really  hurt,  thought  Rhoda. 

But  anyhow,  cramped  and  squalid  and  dingy  though 
9  Greville  Street  might  be,  it  held  security  and  peace. 

"  The  Snuggery,  that's  what  we  call  it  at  fifty-one," 
said  Miss  Clegson,  who  sometimes  looked  in  to  rally 
them. 

Fifty-one  was  getting  less  of  a  snuggery  than  ever. 
Fifty-one,  Peter  feared,  was  going  down,  the  hill.  The 
Berovieri  goblet  had  made  a  little  piece  of  level  road 
for  it,  but  that  was  soon  over,  and  the  descent  began 
again.  Peggy,  try  as  she  would,  could  not  make  both 
ends  meet.  Hilary,  despise  his  job  as  he  might,  found 
it  slipping  from  him  more  and  more.  Week  by  week 
he  seemed  to  earn  a  little  less;  week  by  week  they 
seemed  to  spend  a  little  more.  Peggy,  as  Hilary  had 
frequently  remarked,  was  not  a  good  manager.  One 
or  two  of  the  boarders  left,  to  seek  more  commodious 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        193 

quarters  elsewhere.  More  frequently,  as  the  winter  ad- 
vanced, Peggy  wailed,  "  Whatever  is  to  become  of  us, 
dear  only  knows !  What  with  Larry  drinking  pints  of 
cough-syrup,  and  Micky  rolling  in  the  gutter  in  his  best 
suit,  and  Norah,  the  creature,  letting  the  crockery  fly 
about  as  if  it  was  alive,  and  Hilary  insisting  on  the 
table  cloth  being  cleaner  than  it  ever  is,  and  the  board- 
ers having  to  have  food  they  can  eat,  and  now  Lent's 
coming  on  and  half  of  them  don't  take  any  notice  of 
it  but  eat  their  joints  just  the  same,  bad  manners  to 
them  for  heretics.  Oh,  dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear !  " 

Whenever  Peter  could  spare  any  money  he  gave  it 
to  Peggy.  But  his  own  fortunes  were  not  exactly  on 
the  make.  He  was  not  proving  good  at  his  job. 
Recommended  to  his  employers  by  Leslie,  he  had  begun, 
of  course,  on  a  very  small  salary,  to  learn  his  trade ;  he 
hadn't  so  far  learnt  enough  of  it  to  justify  his  promo- 
tion. Every  day  he  went  through  the  same  drudgery, 
with  the  same  lack  of  intelligence, —  (it  is  odd  how  dis- 
cernment and  talent  in  one  trade  serve  so  little  for 
another)  —  and  every  week  came  home  with  the  same 
meagre  sum. 

As  far  as  he  hated  anything,  he  hated  this  work  of 
his;  long  ago,  had  he  been  alone  concerned,  he  would 
have  dropped  it,  and  taken  to  tramping  the  roads  with 
boot-laces  to  sell,  or  some  other  equally  unstrenuous  and 
unlucrative  avocation.  But  he  had  not,  from  the  first, 
been  alone  concerned;  first  he  had  had  to  help  Hilary 
and  Peggy,  and  now  he  had  to  keep  a  wife  too.  Even- 
tually there  would  probably  be  also  children  to  keep; 
Peter  didn't  know  how  much  these  cost,  but  vaguely 
believed  them  to  be  expensive  luxuries.  So  there 
seemed  no  prospect  of  his  being  able  to  renounce  his 
trade,  though  there  was  a  considerable  prospect  of  its 
renouncing  him,  as  he  was  from  time  to  time  informed. 


I94  THE  LEE  SHORE 

The  winter  dragged  quietly  through,  and  the  spring 
came;  the  queer  London  ghost  of  spring,  with  its  bitter 
winds  and  black  buds  and  evasive  hints  of  what  is  going 
on  in  the  real  world,  where  things  change.  Peter 
dreamt  of  green  things  coming  up  and  hawthorn  hedges 
growing  edible.  Ehoda's  cough  grew  softer  and  her 
eyes  more  restless,  as  if  she  too  had  her  dreams.  She 
developed  a  new  petulance  with  Peter  and  with  the 
maid-of-all-work,  and  left  off  tying  the  kitten's  neck- 
ribbon.  It  was  really  a  cat  now,  and  cats  are  tiresome. 
She  said  she  was  dull  all  day  with  so  little  to  do. 
Peter,  full  of  compunction,  suggested  asking  people  to 
the  house  more,  and  she  assented,  rather  listlessly.  So 
Peter  hinted  to  Peggy,  who  had  a  cheering  presence, 
that  Ehoda  would  be  glad  to  see  her  more  often,  and 
Peggy  made  what  time  she  could  to  come  round.  Their 
circle  of  friends  was  limited;  they  chiefly  consisted  of 
the  inhabitants  of  fifty-one,  and  a  few  relatives  of 
Ehoda's,  who  amused  and  pleased  Peter  but  vexed 
Ehoda  by  being  common. 

"  But  I  like  them,"  said  Peter. 

"  You  like  to  see  me  put  to  shame,  I  suppose,"  said 
Ehoda,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  As  if  it  was  my  fault 
that  my  parents  came  of  common  people.  I've  cried 
myself  sick  over  it  sometimes,  when  I  was  younger,  and 
now  I  just  want  to  forget  it." 

Peter  said  no  more.  It  was  one  of  the  sides  of 
Ehoda  with  which  he  felt  he  had  no  connexion ;  it  was 
best  let  alone,  as  Peter  always  let  alone  the  things  he 
could  not  like.  But  he  was  sorry  she  felt  like  that,  for 
her  nice,  common,  friendly  relations  might  have  been 
company  for  her. 

Peter  sometimes  brought  friends  home  from  his 
office;  Peter  could  not  have  been  in  an  office  without 
collecting  friends,  having  the  social  instinct  strongly 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        195 

developed.  But  Rhoda  didn't  much  care  about  seeing 
his  fellow-clerks ;  they  hadn't,  she  was  sure,  great  minds, 
and  they  made  silly  jokes. 

Another  person  who  came  to  see  Peter  sometimes  was 
Rodney.  Ever  since  the  Margerisons'  abrupt  fall  into 
ignominy,  Rodney  had  cultivated  Peter's  acquaintance. 
Peter  perceived  that  he  had  at  last  slipped  into  the  ranks 
of  those  unfortunates  who  were  qualified  for  Rodney's 
regard ;  it  was  enough  for  that,  Urquhart  had  long  since 
told  him,  to  be  cut  by  society  or  to  produce  a  yester- 
day's handkerchief.  Peter,  driven  from  the  faces  of 
the  rich,  found  Rodney  waiting  to  receive  him  cheer- 
fully among  the  ranks  of  the  poor.  Rodney  was  a 
much  occupied  person;  but  when  he  found  time  from 
his  other  pursuits  he  walked  up  from  his  Westminster 
slum  to  Holborn  and  visited  9  Greville  Street.  He 
hadn't  known  quite  what  to  make  of  Peter's  marriage ; 
though  when  he  got  to  know  Rhoda  a  little  he  began 
to  understand  rather  more.  She,  being  very  manifestly 
among  the  Have-Nbts,  and  a  small,  weak,  and  pitiable 
thing,  also  entered  in  a  manner  into  the  circle  of  his 
tolerance.  He  was  gentle  with  her  always,  though  not 
expansive.  She  was  a  little  in  awe  of  the  gaunt  young 
man,  with  his  strange  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  so  much 
further  than  anyone  else's.  She  pronounced  him 
"  queer." 

"  I  suppose  he's  very  clever,"  she  said  to  Peter. 

"  Yes,"  Peter  agreed. 

But  even  that  didn't  further  him  in  Rhoda's  regard. 
She  thought  him  rude,  as  indeed  he  was,  though  he 
tried  to  conceal  it.  He  seldom  spoke  to  her,  and  when 
he  did  it  was  with  an  unadorned  brevity  that  offended 
her.  Mostly  he  let  her  alone,  and  saw  Peter  when  he 
could  outside  his  home.  Rodney,  himself  a  celibate, 
thought  matrimony  a  mistake,  though  certainly  a  neces- 


196  THE  LEE  SHORE 

sary  mistake  if  the  human  race  was  to  continue  to  adorn 
the  earth  —  a  doubtful  ornament  to  it,  in  Rodney's 
opinion. 

Rhoda  said  one  evening  to  Peter,  "  You  don't  see 
anything  of  your  friends  the  Urquharts  now,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Peter,  who  was  stroking  the  kitten's  fur 
the  wrong  way,  to  bring  sparks  out  of  it  before  the  gas 
was  lit.  "  They've  been  in  the  country  all  the  winter." 

"  Mr.  Urquhart  got  elected  a  member,  didn't  he  ? " 
said  Rhoda,  without  much  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter. 

"  I  suppose  they'll  be  coming  up  to  town  soon,  then, 
for  him  to  attend  Parliament." 

Peter  supposed  they  would. 

"  When  last  Lucy  wrote,  she  said  they  were  coming 
up  this  month." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  her  again,  since  Monday 
week  ?  "  enquired  Rhoda. 

"  No.  We  write  alternate  Sundays,  you  know.  We 
always  have.  Last  Sunday  it  was  my  turn." 

"  Fancy  going  on  all  these  years  so  regular,"  said 
Rhoda.  "  I  couldn't,  not  to  any  of  my  cousins.  I 
should  use  up  all  there  was  to  say." 

"  Oh,  but  there  are  quite  new  things  every  fortnight," 
Peter  explained. 

Certainly  it  wasn't  easy  to  picture  Rhoda  correspond- 
ing with  any  of  the  Johnson  relatives  once  a  fortnight. 

"  I  expect  you  and  she  have  heaps  to  tell  each  other 
always  when  you  meet,"  said  Rhoda,  a  little  plaintive 
note  in  her  weak  voice. 

Peter  considered. 

"  Not  so  much  to  tell  exactly  as  to  talk  about.  Yes, 
there's  lots  to  say.  .  .  .  She's  coming  to  see  you,  Rhoda, 
directly  they  come  up  to  town.  It's  so  funny  to  think 
you  and  she  have  never  met." 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        197 

"  Is  it  ?  Well,  I  don't  know.  I've  not  met  any  of 
your  cousins  really,  have  I  ?  " 

Rhoda  was  in  one  of  her  slightly  pettish  moods  this 
evening.  Peter  didn't  better  matters  by  saying,  "  Oh, 
well,  none  of  the  others  count.  Lucy  and  I  have  always 
been  different  from  most  cousins,  I  suppose;  more  like 
brother  and  sister,  I  daresay." 

Rhoda  looked  at  him  sharply.  She  was  in  a  fault- 
finding mood. 

"  You  think  more  of  her  than  you  do  of  anyone  else. 
Of  course,  I  know  that." 

Peter  was  startled.  He  stopped  stroking  the  kitten 
and  looked  at  her  through  the  dim  firelight.  The 
suspicion  of  a  vulgar  scene  was  in  the  air,  and  fright- 
ened him.  Then  he  remembered  that  Rhoda  was  in 
frail  health,  and  said  very  gently,  "  Oh,  Rhoda  darling, 
don't  say  silly  things,  like  a  young  gurl  in  a  novelette," 
and  slithered  along  the  floor  and  laid  his  arm  across 
her  lap  and  laughed  up  into  her  face. 

She  sniffed  a  little,  and  dabbed  her  handkerchief  at 
her  eyes. 

"  It's  all  very  well,  Peter,  but  you  do  care  for  her  a 
lot,  you  know  you  do." 

"  But  of  course  I  do,"  said  Peter,  laying  his  cheek 
against  her  knee.  "  You  don't  mind.,  Rhoda,  do  you  ?  " 

"  You  care  for  her,"  said  Rhoda,  but  softening  under 
his  caresses,  "  and  you  care  for  her  husband.  You  care 
for  him  awfully,  Peter;  more  than  for  her  really,  I 
believe ;  more  than  for  anyone  in  the  world,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Don't,"  said  Peter,  his  voice  muffled  against  her 
dress.  "  I  can't  compare  one  thing  with  another  like 
that,  and  I  don't  want  to.  Isn't  one's  caring  for  each 
of  the  people  one  knows  quite  different  from  every 
other?  Isn't  yours?  Can  you  say  which  you  love 
best,  the  sun  rising  over  the  river,  or  St.  Mark's,  or  a 


198  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Bellini  Madonna  ?  Of  course  you  can't,  and  it's  im- 
moral to  try.  So  I'm  not  going  to  place  Lucy  and 
Denis  and  you  and  Rodney  and  Peggy  and  the  kitten 
in  a  horrid  class-list.  I  won't.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

He  drew  one  of  her  small  thin  hands  down  to  his 
lips,  then  moved  it  up  and  placed  it  on  his  head,  and 
drew  it  gently  to  and  fro,  ruffling  his  hair. 

"  You're  a  silly,  Peter,"  said  Rhoda,  and  there  was 
peace. 

Very  soon  after  that  Lucy  came.  She  came  in  the 
afternoon  before  Peter  got  home,  and  Rhoda  looked 
with  listless  interest  at  the  small,  wide-eyed  person  in  a 
grey  frock  and  big  grey  hat  that  made  her  small,  pale 
face  look  like  a  white  flower.  Pretty?  Rhoda  wasn't 
sure.  Very  like  Peter ;  so  perhaps  not  pretty ;  only  one 
liked  to  look  at  her.  Clever  ?  It  didn't  transpire  that 
she  was.  Witty?  Well,  much  more  amused  than 
amusing ;  and  when  she  was  amused  she  came  out  with 
Peter's  laugh,  which  Rhoda  wasn't  sure  was  in  good 
taste  on  her  part.  Absurdly  like  Peter  she  was,  to  look 
at  and  to  listen  to,  and  in  some  inner  essence  which 
was  beyond  definition.  The  thought  flashed  through 
Rhoda's  mind  that  it  was  no  wonder  these  two  found 
things  to  tell  each  other  every  other  Sunday ;  they  would 
be  interested  in  all  the  same  things,  so  it  must  be  easy. 

Remotely,  dully,  Rhoda  thought  these  things,  as 
things  which  didn't  concern  her  particularly.  Less  and 
less  each  day  she  had  grown  to  care  whether  Peter 
found  his  cousin  Lucy  a  kindred  spirit  or  not.  She 
could  work  herself  up  into  a  fit  of  petulant  jealousy 
about  it  at  times ;  but  it  didn't  touch  her  inmost  being ; 
it  was  a  very  surface  grievance. 

So  she  looked  at  Lucy  dispassionately,  and  let  her- 
self, without  a  struggle,  be  caught  and  held  by  that 
ingenuous  charm,  a  charm  as  of  a  small  woodland 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        199 

flower  set  dancing  by  the  winds  of  spring.  She  noticed 
that  when  the  kitten  that  was  now  nearly  a  cat  sprang, 
on  to  Lucy's  lap,  she  stroked  its  fur  backwards  with 
her  flat  hand  and  spread  fingers  precisely  as  Peter 
always  did. 

Then  Peter  came  in,  and  he  and  Lucy  laughed  the 
same  laugh  at  one  another,  and  then  they  had  tea. 
After  all,  Ehoda  didn't  see  now  that  they  were  so  like. 
Peter  talked  much  more ;  he  said  twenty  words  to  Lucy's 
one;  Lucy  wasn't  a  great  talker  at  all.  Peter  was  a 
chatterbox;  there  was  no  denying  that.  And  their 
features  and  eyes  and  all  weren't  so  like,  either.  But 
when  one  had  said  all  this,  there  was  something  .  .  . 
something  inner,  essential,  indefinable,  of  the  spirit, 
that  was  not  of  like  substance  but  the  same.  So  it  is 
sometimes  with  twins.  Khoda,  her  intuitive  faculties 
oddly  sharpened,  took  in  this.  Peter  might  care  most 
for  Denis  Urquhart;  he  might  love  Ehoda  as  a  wife; 
but  Lucy,  less  consciously  loved  than  either,  was  inti- 
mately one  with  himself. 

Peter  asked  "  How  is  Denis  ? "  and  Lucy  answered 
"  Very  well,  of  course.  And  very  busy  playing  at 
being  a  real  member.  Isn't  it  fun?  Oh,  he  sent  you 
his  love.  And  you're  to  come  and  see  us  soon." 

That  last  wasn't  a  message  from  Denis;  Peter  knew 
that.  He  knew  that  there  would  be  no  more  such  mes- 
sages from  Denis ;  the  Margerisons  had  gone  a  little  too 
far  in  their  latest  enterprise ;  they  had  strained  the  cord 
to  breaking-point,  and  it  had  broken.  In  future  Denis 
might  be  kind  and  friendly  to  Peter  when  they  met,  but 
he  wouldn't  bring  about  meetings;  they  would  embar- 
rass him.  But  Lucy  knew  nothing  of  that.  Denis 
hadn't  mentioned  to  her  what  had  happened  at  Astleys 
last  November;  he  never  dwelt  on  unpleasant  subjects 
or  made  a  talk  about  them.  So  Lucy  said  to  Peter  and 


200  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Rhoda,  "You  must  come  and  see  us  soon,"  and  Peter 
said,  "  You're  so  far  away,  you  know,"  evading  her, 
and  she  gave  him  a  sudden  wide  clear  look,  taking  in  all 
he  didn't  say,  which  was  the  way  they  had  with  one  an- 
other, so  that  no  deceits  could  ever  stand  between  them. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Peter,"  she  told  him ;  then,  "  'Course 
you  must  come  " ;  but  he  only  smiled  at  her  and  said, 
"  Some  day,  perhaps." 

"  Honey  sandwiches,  if  you  come  at  tea-time,"  she 
reminded  him.  "  D'you  like  them,  Rhoda  ? "  She 
used  the  name  prettily,  half  shyly,  with  one  of  her  lumi- 
nous, friendly  looks.  "  They're  Peter's  favourite  food, 
you  know." 

But  Rhoda  didn't  know;  Peter  had  never  told  her; 
perhaps  because  it  would  be  extravagant  to  have  them, 
perhaps  because  he  never  put  even  foods  into  class-lists. 
Only  Lucy  knew  without  being  told,  probably  because 
it  was  her  favourite  food  too. 

When  Lucy  went,  it  was  as  if  a  ray  of  early  spring 
sunshine  had  stolen  into  the  room  and  gone.  A  lumi- 
nous person:  that  was  the  thing  Rhoda  felt  her  to  be; 
a  study  in  clear  pale  lights;  one  would  not  have  been 
surprised  if  she  had  crept  in  on  a  wind  from  a  strange 
fairy  world  with  her  arms  full  of  cold  wet  primroses, 
and  danced  out,  taking  with  her  the  souls  of  those  who 
dwelt  within.  Rhoda  wasn't  jealous  now,  if  she  had 
%ver  had  a  touch  of  that. 

Neither  Peter  nor  Rhoda  went  to  the  TJrquharts' 
house,  which  was  a  long  way  off.  But  Lucy  came  again, 
many  times,  to  Greville  Street,  through  that  spring  and 
summer,  stroking  the  cat's  fur  backwards,  laughing  at 
Peter,  shyly  friendly  to  Rhoda. 

And  then  for  a  time  her  laughter  was  sad  and  her 
eyes  wistful,  because  her  father  died.  She  said  once, 
"  I  feel  so  stranded  now,  Peter ;  cut  off  from  what  was 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY        201 

my  life;  from  what  really  is  my  life,  you  know. 
Father  and  Felicity  and  I  were  so  disreputable  always, 
and  as  long  as  I  had  father  I  could  be  disreputable 
too,  whenever  I  felt  I  couldn't  bear  being  prosperous. 
I  had  only  to  go  inside  the  house  and  there  I  was  — 
you  know,  Peter  ?  —  it  was  all  round  me,  and  I  was 
part  of  it.  ...  Now  I'm  cut  off  from  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Denis  and  I  are  so  well  off,  d'you  know. 
Everything  goes  right.  Denis's  friends  are  all  so 
happy  and  successful  and  beautifully  dressed.  I  like 
them  to  be,  of  course ;  they  are  joys,  like  the  sun  shin- 
ing; only  .  .  ." 

"  The  poor  are  always  with  you,"  suggested  Peter. 
"  You  can  always  come  to  Greville  Street,  if  you  can't 
find  them  nearer  at  hand.  And  when  you  come  we'll 
take  Algernon's  blue  neck-ribbon  off,  that  none  of  us 
may  appear  beautifully  dressed." 

"  But  I  like  Algernon's  blue  bow,"  Lucy  protested. 
"  I  love  people  to  be  bright  and  beautiful.  .  .  .  That's 
why  I  like  Denis  so  much,  you  know.  Only  I'm  not 
sure  I  properly  belong,  that's  all." 

Obviously  the  remedy  was  to  come  to  Greville  Street. 
Lucy  came  more  and  more  as  the  months  went  by. 

Ehoda  said  once,  "  Doesn't  it  bother  you  to  come  all 
this  way,  into  these  ugly  streets  ? "  and  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Oh,  I  like  it.  I  like  these  streets  better  than  the 
ones  round  us.  And  I  like  your  house  better  than  ours 
too ;  it's  smaller." 

Ehoda  could  have  thought  she  looked  wistful,  this 
fortunate  person  who  was  in  love  with  her  splendid 
husband  and  lived  in  the  dwellings  of  the  prosperous. 

"  Don't  you  like  large  houses  ? "  she  asked,  without 
much  caring ;  for  she  was  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts 
in  these  days. 


202  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Lucy  puckered  her  wide  forehead. 

"Why,  no.  ]STo,  I  don't  believe  I  do,"  she  said,  as 
if  she  was  finding  it  out  with  a  little  surprise. 

E-hoda  saw  her  one  day  in  July.  In  a  few  weeks, 
she  told  Rhoda  (Peter  was  out  that  afternoon),  she  and 
Denis  were  going  up  to  Scotland,  to  stay  with  people. 

"  We  shall  miss  you,"  said  Rhoda  dully. 

'"  And  me  you,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  more  acute  sense 
of  it. 

"  Peter'll  miss  you  dreadfully,"  said  Rhoda.  She 
was  lying  on  the  sofa,  pale  and  tired  in  the  heat. 

"  Only,"  said  Lucy,  "  next  month  you'll  both  be  feel- 
ing too  interested  to  miss  anyone." 

"  Peter,"  said  Rhoda,  "  cares  more  about  the  baby 
coming  than  I  do." 

Lucy  said,  "  Peter  loves  little  weak  funny  things 
like  that."  She  was  a  little  sad  that  Rhoda  didn't  seem 
to  care  more  about  the  baby ;  babies  are  such  entrancing 
toys  to  those  who  like  toys,  people  like  her  and  Peter. 

Suddenly  Lucy  saw  that  two  large  tears  were  rolling 
down  Rhoda's  pale  cheeks  as  she  lay.  Lucy  knelt  by 
the  sofa  side  and  took  Rhoda's  hand  in  both  of  hers  and 
laid  her  cheek  upon  it. 

"  Please,  little  Rhoda,  not  to  cry.  Please,  little 
.Rhoda,  tell  me." 

Rhoda,  with  her  other  hand,  brushed  the  tears  away. 

"  I'm  a  silly.  I  suppose  I'm  crying  because  I  can't 
feel  to  care  about  anything  in  the  world,  and  I  wish  I 
could.  What's  the  use  of  a  baby  if  you  can't  love  it  ? 
What's  the  use  of  a  husb " 

Lucy's  hand  was  over  her  lips,  and  Lucy  whispered, 
"  Oh,  hush,  little  Rhoda,  hush !  " 

But  Rhoda  pushed  the  hand  away  and  cried,  "  Oh, 
why  do  we  pretend  and  pretend  and  pretend  ?  It's 
Guy  I  care  for  —  Guy,  Guy,  Guy,  who's  gone  for  good 
and  all." 


PETER,  RHODA,  AND  LUCY       203 

She  fell  to  crying  drearily,  with  Lucy's  arms  about 
her. 

"  But  you  mustn't  cry,"  said  Lucy,  her  own  eyes 
brimming  over ;  "  you  mustn't,  you  mustn't.  And  you 
do  care  for  Peter,  you  know  you  do,  only  it's  so  hot, 
and  you're  tired  and  ill.  If  that  horrible  Guy  was 
here  — •  oh,  I  know  he's  horrible  —  you'd  know  you 
cared  for  Peter  most.  You  mustn't  say  things,  Rhoda ; 
it  makes  them  alive."  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  fright- 
ened as  she  looked  over  Rhoda' s  head  out  of  the  window. 

Slowly  Rhoda  quieted  down,  and  lay  numb  and 
still. 

"  You  won't  tell  Peter,"  she  said ;  and  Lucy  said, 
"Oh,  Ehoda!" 

"  Well,  of  course  I  know  you  wouldn't.  Only  that 
you  and  Peter  tell  one  another  things  without  saying 
anything.  .  .  .  Peter  belongs  to  you  really,  you  know, 
not  to  me  at  all.  All  he  thinks  and  says  and  is  —  it's 
all  yours.  He's  never  really  been  near  me  like  that, 
not  from  the  beginning.  I  was  a  silly  to  let  him  sacri- 
fice himself  for  me  the  way  he's  done.  We  don't  belong 
really,  Peter  and  I ;  however  friendly  we  are,  we  don't 
belong;  we  don't  understand  each  other  like  you  two 
do.  ...  You  don't  mind  my  saying  that,  do  you  1 "  for 
Lucy  had  dropped  her  hands  and  fallen  away. 

"  I  mind  your  saying  anything,"  said  Lucy,  "  just 
now.  Don't  say  things :  it  makes  them  alive.  It's  hot, 
and  you're  tired,  and  I'm  not  going  to  stay  any  more." 

She  got  up  from  the  floor  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  down  at  Rhoda.  Rhoda  saw  her  eyes,  how  they 
were  wet  and  strange  and  far-away,  and  full  of  what 
seemed  an  immense  weight  of  pity;  pity  for  all  the 
sadnesses  of  mankind. 

The  next  moment  Lucy's  cool  finger-tips  touched  her 
forehead  in  a  light  caress,  and  Lucy  was  gone. 


CHAPTEE  XV 

THE    LOSS   OF   A   WIFE 

IN  September  Peter  and  Ehoda  had  a  son,  whom 
they  called  Thomas,  because,  Peter  said,  he  had  a 
sceptical  look  about  the  eyes  and  nose.  Peter  was 
pleased  with  him,  and  he  with  Peter.  Ehoda  wasn't 
much  interested;  she  looked  at  him  and  said  he  was 
rather  like  Peter,  and  might  be  taken  away  now,  please. 

"  Like  me  ?  "  Peter  wondered  dubiously.  "  Well,  I 
know  I'm  not  handsome,  but  .  .  ." 

Peggy,  a  born  mother,  took  Thomas  into  her  large 
heart  at  once,  with  her  out-at-elbows  infants,  and  was 
angry  with  Ehoda  for  not  showing  more  interest. 

"  You'd  think,  from  the  way  of  her,  that  it  was  her 
thirteenth  instead  of  her  first,"  she  complained  to 
Hilary.  "  I've  no  patience  with  the  silly,  mooning 
child.  She's  nothing  like  good  enough  for  Peter,  and 
that's  a  fact,  and  she'd  have  a  right  to  realise  it  and 
try  to  improve  for  very  shame,  instead  of  moping  the 
way  she  does.  It's  my  belief,  Hilary,  that  her  silly 
little  heart's  away  after  the  Vyvian  man,  whatever 
haunt  of  wickedness  he's  adorning  now.  I  don't  want 
to  believe  it  of  her;  but  there's  no  end  to  the  folly  of 
the  human  heart,  is  there,  now?  I  wish  she  was  a 
Catholic  and  had  a  priest  to  make  her  take  shame  to 
herself;  but  there's  no  hold  one  has  over  her  as  it  is, 
for  she  won't  say  a  word  to  me  beyond  *  Yes  '  and  '  No/ 
and  '  Take  him  away,  please,  he  tires  me.'  I  nearly 
told  her  she'd  a  right  not  to  be  so  easily  tired  by  her 

204 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  205 

own  son  now  she's  getting  her  health.  But  there,  she's 
a  poor  frail  thing  and  one  can't  speak  roughly  to  her 
for  fear  she  breaks  in  two." 

Hilary  said,  "  After  all,  there's  no  great  cause  for 
rejoicing  in  a  man's  being  born  into  the  world  to  trou- 
ble; I  suppose  she  feels  that.  It  will  make  it  more 
difficult  than  ever  for  them  and  for  us  to  make  both 
ends  meet." 

"  Oh,  meet,"  groaned  Peggy,  "  that's  not  what  there's 
any  thought  of  their  doing  in  these  days,  my  dear.  If 
one  can  bring  them  within  a  mile  of  one  another,  one's 
thankful  for  small  mercies." 

Hilary  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  and  sighed. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Peter  yet  about  appealing  to 
the  TJrquharts  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Darling,  I  have  not,  and  I'm  not  going  to.  Why 
should  I  annoy  the  poor  child  to  no  purpose  ?  He'll  not 
appeal  to  the  Urquharts,  we  know  that  well,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  waste  my  breath.  I'd  far  rather " 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Hilary,  as  she  paused. 

"  Oh  well,  I  don't  know.  Don't  you  worry  about 
ways  and  means ;  something  will  surely  turn  up  before 
long."  Peggy  was  an  optimist. 

"  And  anyhow,"  went  on  Peggy,  to  change  the  sub- 
ject from  ways  and  means,  which  was  a  depressing  one, 
"  isn't  our  little  Peter  a  darling  with  his  baby  ?  I  love 
to  see  them  together.  He  washes  it  himself  as  often  as 
not,  you  know;  only  he  can't  always  catch  it  again 
when  it  slips  through  his  hands,  and  that  worries  him. 
He's  dreadfully  afraid  of  its  getting  drowned  or  spoilt 
or  lost  or  something." 

"  It  probably  will,"  said  Hilary,  who  was  a  pessi- 
mist. "  Peter  is  no  hand  at  keeping  things.  We  are 
not  a  fortunate  family." 

"  Never  mind,  darling ;  we've  kept  three ;  and  more 


206  THE  LEE  SHORE 

by  token  Kitty  must  have  a  new  pair  of  boots  this 
winter ;  she's  positively  indecent  the  way  she  goes  about 
now.  I  can't  help  it,  Hilary;  you  must  pawn  your 
ring  again  or  something." 

Peggy  didn't  want  to  say  anything  else  depressing, 
so  she  didn't  mention  that  Miss  Matthews  had  that 
morning  given  notice  of  her  departure.  But  in  Peggy's 
own  mind  there  was  a  growing  realisation  that  some- 
thing drastic  must  really  be  done  soon. 

October  went  by.  When  Peter  knew  that  the  Urqu- 
harts  had  come  back  to  London,  he  wondered  why  Lucy 
didn't  come  to  see  Thomas.  So  he  wrote  and  asked 
her  to,  and  on  that  she  came. 

She  came  at  tea-time,  one  day  when  Rhoda  happened 
to  have  gone  out.  So  Peter  and  Lucy  had  tea  alone 
together,  and  Thomas  lay  in  his  crib  and  looked  at 
them,  and  Algernon  snored  on  Lucy's  knee,  and  the 
November  fog  shut  out  the  outer  world  like  a  blanket, 
and  blurred  the  gas-light  in  the  dingy  room. 

Peter  thought  Lucy  was  rather  quiet  and  pale,  and 
her  chuckle  was  a  little  subdued.  Her  dominant  aspect, 
of  clear  luminousness,  was  somehow  dimmed  and  mysti- 
fied, with  all  other  lights,  in  this  blurred  afternoon. 
Her  wide  clear  eyes,  strange  always  with  the  world's 
gay  wonder  and  mystery,  had  become  eyes  less  gay,  eyes 
that  did  not  understand,  that  even  shrank  a  little  from 
what  they  could  not  understand.  Lucy  looked  a  touch 
puzzled,  not  so  utterly  the  glad  welcomer  of  all  arriving 
things  that  she  had  always  been. 

But  for  Thomas,  the  latest  arrived  thing,  she  had  a 
glad  welcome.  Like  Peter,  she  loved  all  little  funny 
weak  things;  and  Thomas  seemed  certainly  that,  as  he 
lay  and  blinked  at  the  blurred  gas  and  curled  his  fingers 
round  one  of  Peter's.  A  happy,  silent  person,  with 
doubts,  one  fancied,  as  to  the  object  of  the  universe, 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  207 

but  no  doubts  that  there  were  to  be  found  in  it  many 
desirable  things. 

When  Lucy  came  in,  Peter  was  reading  aloud  to  him 
some  of  Traherne's  "  Divine  Reflections  on  the  Native 
Objects  of  an  Infant-Eye,"  which  he  seemed  rather  to 
like. 

"  I  that  so  long  [Peter  told  him  he  was  thinking, 

Was  Nothing  from  Eternity, 
Did  little  think  such  Joys  as  Ear  and  Tongue 
To  celebrate  or  see: 

Such  Sounds  to  hear,  such  Hands  to  feel,  such  Feet, 
Such  Eyes  and  Objects  on  the  Ground  to  Meet. 

"  New  burnisht  Joys ! 
Which  finest  Gold  and  Pearl  excell!  " 

"  Oo,"  said  Thomas  expectantly. 

"A  Stranger  here,  [Peter  told  him  further, 

Strange  things  doth  meet,  strange  Glory  see; 
Strange  Treasures  lodg'd  in  this  fair  World  appear, 
Strange  all  and  New  to  me: 
But  that  they  mine  should  be  who  Nothing  waa, 
That  strangest  is  of  all ;  yet  brought  to  pass." 

"  Ow,"  said  Thomas,  agreeing. 

Peter  turned  over  the  pages.  "  Do  you  like  it  ?  Do 
you  think  so  too  ?  Here's  another  about  you." 

"  But  little  did  the  Infant  dream 
That  all  the  Treasures  of  the  World  were  by, 
And  that  himself  was  so  the  Cream 
And  Crown  of  all  which  round  about  did  ly. 
Yet  thus  it  was!  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  understand  the  rest  of  that 
verse,  Thomas ;  it's  rather  more  difficult.  *  Yet  thus  it 
was ! '  We'll  end  there,  and  have  our  tea." 

Turning  his  head  he  saw  that  Lucy  had  come  in  and 
was  standing  behind  him,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at 
Thomas  in  his  crib. 

"  Oh,   Lucy,"    he   said,    "  I'm  reading  to   Thomas. 


208  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Thomas  is  that.  Do  you  like  him?  He  is  surprised 
at  life,  but  quite  pleased.  He  that  was  Nothing  from 
Eternity  did  little  think  such  Joys  to  celebrate  or  see. 
Yet  thus  it  is.  He  is  extraordinarily  happy  about  it 
all,  but  he  can't  do  anything  yet,  you  know  —  not  speak 
or  sit  up  or  anything.  He  can  only  make  noises,  and 
cry,  and  drink,  and  slither  about  in  his  bath  like  a 
piece  of  wet  soap.  Wasn't  there  a  clergyman  once  who 
thought  his  baby  ought  to  be  baptised  by  immersion 
unless  it  was  proved  not  well  able  to  endure  it,  as  it 
says  in  the  rubric  or  somewhere,  so  he  put  it  in  a  tub 
to  try  if  it  could  endure  it  or  not,  and  he  let  it  loose 
by  accident  and  couldn't  catch  it  again,  it  was  so  slip- 
pery, just  like  a  horrid  little  fish,  and  its  mother  only 
came  in  and  got  hold  of  it  just  in  time  to  prevent  its 
being  drowned  ?  So  after  that  he  felt  he  could  honestly 
certify  that  the  child  couldn't  well  endure  immersion^ 
I'm  getting  better  at  catching  Thomas,  though.  He 
isn't  supposed  to  slip  off  my  hand  at  all,  but  he  kicks 
and  slithers  so  I  can't  hold  him,  and  swims  away  and 
gets  lost.  After  tea  will  you  come  and  help  me  wash 
him  ?  Rhoda's  out  to  tea ;  I'm  so  sorry.  But  there's 
tea,  and  Thomas  and  Algernon  and  me,  and  —  and 
rather  thick  bread  and  butter  only,  apparently;  but  I 
shall  have  jam  now  you've  come.  First  I  must  adjust 
Thomas's  drinking-bottle ;  he  always  likes  a  drink  while 
we  have  our  tea.  He's  two  months  old.  Is  he  good 
for  that,  do  you  think,  or  should  he  be  a  size  larger? 
But  I  rather  like  them  small,  don't  you  ?  They're 
lighter  so,  for  one  thing.  Is  he  nice?  Do  you  like 
him  ? » 

Lucy,  kneeling  by  the  crib,  nodded. 

"  He's  very  old  and  wise,  Peter ;  very  old  and  gay. 
Look  at  his  eyes.  He's  much  —  oh  very  much  —  older 
than  you  or  me.  That's  as  it  should  be." 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  209 

"  He'll  rejuvenate  with  years,  won't  he  ?  "  said  Peter. 
"At  present  he's  too  old  to  laugh  when  I  make  jokes; 
he  thinks  them  silly;  but  he'll  be  sillier  than  anyone 
himself  in  about  six  months,  I  expect.  Now  we'll  have 
tea." 

Lucy  left  Thomas  and  came  to  the  tea-table  and 
poured  out  tea  for  both  of  them. 

"  I'm  trying  to  learn  to  do  without  three  lumps," 
said  Peter,  as  Lucy  put  them  in.  "  I  expect  it's  ex- 
travagant to  have  three,  really.  But  then  Rhoda  and 
Thomas  don't  take  any,  so  it's  only  the  same  as  if  we 
each  had  one,  isn't  it.  Thomas  shan't  be  allowed  more 
than  one  in  each  cup  when  he  grows  young  enough  to 
want  any;  Rhoda  and  I  mean  him  to  be  a  refined 
person." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  be,"  said  Lucy,  looking 
thoughtfully  into  the  future.  "  I  expect  he'll  be  as 
vulgar  as  you  and  me.  He's  awfully  like  you  to  look 
at,  Peter." 

"  So  I  am  informed.  Well,  I'm  not  vain,  and  I 
don't  claim  to  be  an  Adonis,  like  Denis.  Is  Denis 
flourishing?  The  birds  were  splendid;  they  came  so 
thick  and  fast  that  I  gathered  it  was  being  a  remark- 
able season.  But  as  you  only  answered  my  numerous 
letters  by  one,  and  that  apropos  merely  of  Thomas's 
arrival,  I  could  only  surmise  and  speculate  on  your 
doings.  I  suppose  you  thought  the  grouse  were  instead 
of  letters." 

"  They  were  Denis's  letters.  I  didn't  shoot  the 
grouse,  dear  darlings,  nor  send  them." 

"  What  were  your  letters,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  sent  rowan  berries,  didn't  I  ?  Weren't 
they  red  ? " 

"  Yes.  Even  Thomas  read  them.  We're  being 
rather  funny,  aren't  we?  Is  Denis  going  on  with 


210  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Parliament  again  this  autumn,  or  has  he  begun  to  get 
tired  of  it  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  tired  of  it.  He  doesn't  bother  about  it 
particularly,  you  know;  not  enough  to  tire  himself;  he 
sort  of  takes  it  for  granted,  like  going  up  to  Scotland 
in  August." 

Peter  nodded.  "  I  know.  He  would  take  it  just 
like  that  if  he  was  Prime  Minister,  or  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  I  daresay  he  will  be  one  day;  isn't  it 
nice  the  way  things  drop  into  his  hands  without  his 
bothering  to  get  them." 

He  didn't  see  the  queer,  silent  look  Lucy  turned  on 
him  as  he  spread  his  thick  bread  and  butter  with  black- 
berry jam. 

"  Thomas,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "  has  dropped 
into  your  hands,  Peter."  It  was  as  if  she  was  pro- 
testing against  something,  beating  herself  against  some 
invisible,  eternal  barrier  that  divided  the  world  into  two 
unequal  parts. 

Peter  said,  "  Rather,  he  has.  I  do  hope  he'll  never 
drop  out.  I'm  getting  very  handy  about  holding  him, 
though.  Oh,  let's  take  him  upstairs  and  tub  him  now ; 
do  you  mind  ?  " 

So  they  took  him  upstairs  and  tubbed  him,  and  Lucy 
managed  to  hold  him  so  firmly  that  he  didn't  once 
swim  away  and  get  lost. 

As  they  were  drying  him  (Lucy  dried  him  with  a 
firmer  and  more  effective  hand  than  Peter,  who  always 
wiped  him  very  gingerly  lest  he  should  squash)  Rhoda 
came  in.  She  was  strange-eyed  and  pale  in  the  blurred 
light,  and  greeted  Lucy  in  a  dreamy,  absent  way. 

"  I've  had  tea  out.  .  .  .  Oh,  have  you  bathed  baby  ? 
How  good  of  you.  I  meant  to  be  in  earlier,  but  I  was 
late.  .  .  .  The  fog's  awful;  it's  getting  thicker  and 
thicker." 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  211 

She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  loosened  her  coat,  and 
took  off  her  hat  and  rubbed  the  fog  from  her  wet  hair, 
and  coughed.  Rhoda  had  grown  prettier  lately;  she 
looked  less  tired  and  listless,  and  her  eyes  were  brighter, 
and  the  fire  flushed  her  thin  cheek  to  rose-colour  as 
she  bent  over  it. 

Peter  took  her  wet  things  from  her  and  took  off  her 
shoes  and  put  slippers  on  her  feet,  and  she  gave  him 
an  absent  smile.  Rhoda  had  had  a  dreamy  way  with 
her  since  Thomas's  birth ;  moony,  as  Peggy,  who  didn't 
approve,  called  it. 

A  little  later,  when  Thomas  was  clean  and  warm  and 
asleep  in  his  bed,  they  were  told  that  Mrs.  Urquhart's 
carriage  had  come. 

Lucy  bent  over  Thomas  and  kissed  him,  then  over 
Rhoda.  Rhoda  whispered  in  her  ear,  without  emo- 
tion, "  Baby  ought  to  have  been  yours,  not  mine,"  and 
Lucy  whispered  back: 

"Oh  hush,  hush!" 

Rhoda  still  held  her,  still  whispered,  "  Will  you  love 
him  ?  Will  you  be  good  to  him,  always  ?  " 

And  Lucy  answered,  opening  wide  eyes,  "  Why,  of 
course.  ]STo  one  could  help  it,  could  they  ? "  and  on 
that  Rhoda  let  her  go. 

Peter  thought  that  Lucy  must  have  infected  Rhoda 
with  some  of  her  own  appreciation  of  Thomas,  opened 
her  eyes  to  his  true  worth;  for  during  the  next  week 
she  was  newly  tender  to  him.  She  bathed  him  every 
evening  herself,  only  letting  Peter  help  a  little;  she 
held  him  in  her  arms  without  wearying  of  his  weight, 
and  wasn't  really  annoyed  even  when  he  was  sick  upon 
her  shoulder,  an  unfortunate  habit  of  Thomas's. 

But  a  habit,  Peter  thought,  that  Thomas  employed 
with  some  discrimination;  for  the  one  and  only  one 
time  that  Guy  Vyvian  took  him  in  his  arms  —  or 


212  THE  LEE  SHORE 

rather  submitted  to  his  being  put  there  by  Ehoda  — 
Thomas  was  sicker  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  with 
an  immense  completeness. 

"  Just  what  I  always  feel  myself,"  commented 
Peter  in  his  own  mind,  as  Thomas  was  hastily  removed. 
"  I'm  glad  someone  has  shown  him  at  last  what  the  best 
people  feel  about  him." 

Vyvian  had  come  to  call.  It  was  the  first  time  Peter 
had  met  him  since  his  marriage;  he  hoped  it  would  be 
the  last.  The  object  of  the  call  was  to  inspect  Thomas, 
Ehoda  said.  Thomas  was  inspected,  produced  the  im- 
pression indicated  above,  and  was  relegated  to  the  region 
of  things  for  which  Vyvian  had  no  use.  He  detested 
infants;  children  of  any  sort,  in  fact;  and  particularly 
Thomas,  who  had  Peter's  physiognomy  and  expressed 
Peter's  sentiments  in  a  violently  ill-bred  way. 

Peter,  a  little  later,  was  very  glad  that  Thomas  had 
revealed  himself  thus  openly  on  this  occasion.  For 
it  quite  sealed  Thomas's  fate,  if  anything  more  was 
needed  to  seal  it  than  the  fact  that  Thomas  would  be 
an  impossible  burden,  and  also  belonged  by  right  to 
Peter.  Anyhow,  they  left  Thomas  behind  them  when 
they  went. 

Ehoda  wrote  a  scrawled  note  for  Peter  one  foggy 
Monday  morning,  and  hugged  Thomas  close  and  cried 
a  little,  and  slipped  out  into  the  misty  city  with  a  hand- 
bag. Peter,  coming  in  at  tea-time,  found  the  note  on 
the  sitting-room  chimneypiece.  It  said :  — 

"  Don't  try  to  follow  me,  Peter,  for  I  can't  come  back. 
I  have  tried  to  care  for  you  more  than  him  and  be  a 
good  wife,  but  I  can't  You  know  I  told  you  when  we 
got  engaged  that  I  cared  for  him,  and  I  tried  so  hard 
to  stop,  and  I  thought  I  would  be  able,  with  you  to  help 
me,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  For  the  first  few  months  I 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  213 

thought  I  could,  but  all  the  time  it  was  there,  like  a  fire 
in  me,  eating  me  up ;  and  later  on  he  began  writing  to 
me,  but  for  a  long  time  I  wouldn't  answer,  and  then  he 
came  to  see  me,  and  I  said  he  mustn't,  but  he's  been 
meeting  me  out  and  I  couldn't  stop  him,  and  at  last  it 
grew  that  I  knew  I  loved  him  so  that  it  was  no  use  pre- 
tending any  more.  I'd  better  go,  Peter,  for  what's  the 
use  of  trying  to  be  a  good  wife  to  you  when  all  I  care 
for  is  him.  I  know  he's  not  good,  and  you  are,  but  I 
love  him,  and  I  must  go  when  he  wants  me.  It  was 
all  a  mistake ;  you  and  I  ought  never  to  have  married. 
You  meant  it  kindly,  I  know;  you  meant  to  help  me 
and  make  me  happy,  but  it  was  no  use.  You  and  I 
never  properly  belonged.  When  I  saw  you  and  Lucy 
together,  I  knew  we  didn't  belong,  not  like  that;  we 
didn't  properly  understand  each  other's  ways  and 
thoughts,  like  you  two  did.  I  love  Lucy,  too.  You 
and  she  are  so  like.  And  she'll  be  good  to  Baby;  she 
said  she  would.  I  hate  to  leave  Baby,  but  Guy  won't 
let  me  bring  him,  and  anyhow  I  suppose  I  couldn't,  be- 
cause he's  yours.  I've  written  a  list  of  his  feeds,  and 
it's  on  the  chimneypiece  behind  the  clock ;  please  make 
whoever  sees  to  him  go  by  it  or  he  gets  a  pain.  Please 
be  careful  when  you  bath  him;  I  think  Mrs.  Adams 
had  better  do  it  usually.  She'll  take  care  of  him  for 
you,  or  Peggy  will,  perhaps.  You'll  think  I  never 
cared  for  him,  but  I  do,  I  love  him,  only  I  must  love 
Guy  most  of  all.  I  don't  know  if  I  shall  be  happy 
or  miserable,  but  I  expect  miserable,  only  I  must  go 
with  Guy.  Please,  dear  Peter,  try  and  understand 
this,  and  forgive  me.  I  think  you  will,  because  you  al- 
ways do  understand  things,  and  forgive  them  too;  I 
think  you  are  the  kindest  person  I  ever  knew.  If  I 
thought  you  loved  me  really,  I  don't  think  I'd  go,  even 
for  Guy;  but  I  know  you've  only  felt  kindly  to  me  all 


214  THE  LEE  SHORE 

along,  so  I  think  it  is  best  for  you  too  that  I  should 
go,  and  you  will  be  thankful  in  the  end.  Good-bye. 
You  promised  mother  to  see  after  me,  I  know,  for  she 
told  me  before  she  died;  well,  you've  done  your  best, 
and  mother' d  be  grateful  to  you  if  she  could  know.  I 
suppose  some  would  say  she  does  know,  perhaps;  but  I 
don't  believe  those  stories;  I  believe  it's  all  darkness 
beyond,  and  silence.  And  if  it  is,  we  must  try  and 
get  all  the  light  and  warmth  here  that  we  can.  So 
I'm  going.  Good-bye,  Peter. 

"  RHODA." 

Peter  read  it  through,  sitting  on  the  rug  by  the  fire. 
When  he  had  finished  it,  he  put  it  into  the  fire  and 
watched  it  burn.  Then  he  sighed,  and  sat  very  still  for 
a  while,  his  hands  clasped  round  one  knee. 

Presently  he  got  up  and  looked  behind  the  clock, 
and  saw  that  the  next  feeding-time  was  due  now.  So 
he  rang  for  Mrs.  Adams,  the  landlady,  and  asked  her 
if  she  would  mind  bringing  Thomas's  bottle. 

When  Thomas  had  it,  Peter  stood  and  looked  down 
upon  him  as  he  drank  with  ill-bred  noises. 

"  Gently,  Thomas :  you'll  choke.  You'll  choke  and 
die,  I  know  you  will.  Then  you'll  be  gone  too.  Every- 
thing goes,  Thomas.  Everything  I  touch  breaks; 
everything  I  try  to  do  fails.  That's  because  I'm  such 
an  ass,  I  suppose.  I  did  think  I  could  perhaps  make 
one  little  unlucky  girl  decently  happy;  but  I  couldn't, 
you  see.  So  she's  gone  after  light  and  warmth,  and 
she'll  —  she'll  break  her  heart  in  a  year,  and  it'll  be 
my  fault.  Follow  her?  ~No,  I  shan't  do  that.  I 
shouldn't  find  her,  and  if  I  did  what  would  be  the  use  ? 
If  she  must  go,  she  must ;  she  was  only  eating  her  heart 
out  here;  and  perhaps  it's  better  to  break  one's  heart 
on  something  than  eat  it  out  in  emptiness.  No,  it 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  215 

isn't  better  in  this  case.  Anything  in  the  world  would 
have  been  better  than. this;  that  she  should  have  gone 
with  that  —  that  person.  Yet  thus  it  is.  And  they'll 
all  set  on  her  and  speak  against  her,  and  I  shall  have 
to  bear  it.  You  and  I  will  have  to  bear  it  together, 
Thomas.  ...  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  angry.  I  ought 
to  want  to  go  after  them,  to  the  end  of  the  world  or 
wherever  they've  gone  and  kill  him  and  bring  her  back. 
But  I  can't.  I  should  fail  in  that  too.  I'm  tired  of 
trying  to  do  things;  simply  horribly  tired  of  it, 
Thomas."  He  sat  down  on  the  rug  with  Thomas  in  his 
arms;  and  there,  an  hour  later,  Peggy  found  them. 
She  swung  in  breezily,  crying,  "  Oh,  Peter,  all  alone 
in  the  dark?  Where's  Ehoda?  Why,  the  silly  chil- 
dren haven't  had  their  tea !  "  she  added,  looking  at  the 
unused  cups  on  the  tea-table. 

Peter  looked  up  vaguely.  "  Oh,  tea.  I  forgot.  I 
don't  think  I  want  any  tea  to-day.  And  Thomas  has 
had  his.  And  Rhoda's  gone.  It's  no  good  not  telling 
you  —  is  it  ?  —  because  you'll  find  out.  She's  gone 
away.  It's  been  my  fault  entirely;  I  didn't  make  her 
happy,  you  see.  And  she's  written  out  a  list  of  the 
times  Thomas  has  to  feed  at.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Adams 
will  do  that  if  I  ask  her,  and  generally  look  after 
him  when  I'm  out." 

Peggy  stood  aghast  before  him  for  a  moment,  star- 
ing, then  collapsed,  breathless,  on  the  sofa,  crying,  with 
even  more  r's  than  usual. 

"Peter!  .  .  .  Why,  she's  gone  and  rrun  off  with 
that  toad,  that  rreptile  man!  Oh,  I  know  it,  so  it's 
not  a  bit  of  use  your  trying  to  keep  it  from  me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Peter ;  "  I  suppose  it's  not." 

"  Oh,  the  little  fool,  the  little,  silly,  wicked  fool ! 
But  if  ever  a  little  fool  got  her  rich  deserts  without 
needing  to  wait  for  purgatory,  that  one'll  be  Rhoda. 


216  THE  LEE  SHORE 

.  .  .  Oh,  Peter,  be  more  excited  and  angry!  Why 
aren't  you  stamping  up  and  down  and  vowing  ven- 
geance, instead  of  sitting  on  the  hearth  saying,  '  Khoda's 
gone,'  as  if  it  was  the  kitten  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Peggy."  Peter  sighed  a  little.  "  I'm 
nursing  Thomas,  you  see." 

Peggy  at  that  was  on  her  knees  on  the  floor,  taking 
both  of  them  into  her  large  embrace. 

"  Oh,  you  two  poor  little  darling  boys,  what's  to  be- 
come of  you  both  ?  That  child  has  a  heart  of  stone,  to 
leave  you  to  yourselves  the  way  she's  done.  Don't  de- 
fend her,  Peter ;  I  won't  hear  a  word  said  for  her  again 
as  long  as  I  live;  she  deserves  Guy  Vyvian,  and  I 
couldn't  say  a  worse  word  for  her  than  that.  You 
poor  little  Tommy;  come  to  me  then,  babykins.  You 
must  come  back  to  us  now,  Peter,  and  I'll  look  after 
you  both." 

She  cuddled  Thomas  to  her  breast  with  one  arm,  and 
put  the  other  round  Peter's  shoulders  as  he  sat  huddled 
up,  his  chin  resting  on  his  knees.  At  the  moment  it 
was  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  looked  the  most 
forsaken,  the  most  left  to  himself.  Only  Thomas 
hadn't  yet  learnt  to  laugh,  and  Peter  had.  He  laughed 
now,  softly  and  not  happily. 

"  It  has  been  rather  a  ghastly  fiasco,  hasn't  it,"  he 
said.  "  Absurd,  you  know,  too,  in  a  way.  I  thought  it 
was  all  working  out  so  nicely,  Thomas  coming  and 
everything.  But  no.  It  wasn't  working  out  nicely  at 
all.  Things  don't  as  a  rule,  do  they  ?  " 

There  was  a  new  note  of  dreariness  in  his  voice;  a 
note  that  had  perhaps  been  kept  out  of  it  of  set  purpose 
for  a  long  time.  Now  there  seemed  at  the  moment  no 
particular  reason  to  keep  it  out  any  more,  though  fresh 
reasons  would  arrive,  no  doubt,  very  soon ;  and  Thomas 
when  waking  was  a  reason  in  himself.  But  in  this  dim 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  217 

hour  between  two  roads,  this  hour  of  relaxation  of  ten- 
sion in  the  shadowy  firelight,  when  Thomas  slept  and 
only  Peggy  listened,  Peter,  having  fallen  crashing 
through  floor  after  floor  of  his  pleasant  house  of  life, 
till  he  was  nearly  at  the  bottom,  looked  up  at  all  the 
broken  floors  and  sighed. 

Peggy's  arm  was  comfortingly  about  him.  To  her 
he  was  always  a  little,  brittle,  unlucky  boy,  as  she  had 
first  seen  him  long  ago. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Peterkin.  There's  a  good  time 
coming,  I  do  believe.  She'll  come  back,  perhaps ;  who 
knows?  Vyvian  wouldn't  do  for  long,  not  even  for 
Rhoda.  Besides,  you  may  be  sure  he'll  throw  her  off 
soon,  and  then  she'll  want  to  come  back  to  you  and 
Tommy.  I  wouldn't  say  that  to  any  other  man,  be- 
cause, of  course,  no  other  man  would  have  her  back ;  but 
I  do  believe,  Peterkin,  that  you  would,  wouldn't  you 
now  ?  I  expect  you'd  smile  and  say,  '  Oh,  come  in, 
you're  just  in  time  for  tea  and  to  see  me  bath  Thomas,' 
and  not  another  word  about  it." 

"  Probably,"  said  Peter.  "  There  wouldn't  be  much 
to  say,  would  there  ?  But  she  won't  come  back ;  I  know 
that.  Even  if  she  leaves  him  she  won't.  Ehoda's  hor- 
ribly proud  really,  you  know.  She'd  sooner  sweep  a 
crossing,  or  trim  hats  or  something,  than  come  near 
us  again.  I  don't  know  what  to  hope  about  it.  I 
suppose  one  must  hope  they'll  go  on  together,  as  Rhoda 
seems  to  like  him  as  he  is;  but  it's  an  awful  thought. 
.  .  .  She's  right  that  we  never  understood  each  other. 
I  couldn't,  you  know,  bear  to  think  of  spending  even 
one  day  alone  with  Vyvian.  I  should  be  sick,  like 
Thomas.  The  mere  sight  of  his  hair  is  enough,  and  his 
hand  with  that  awful  ring  on  it.  I  —  I  simply  draw 
the  line  at  him.  Why  does  Ehoda  care  for  him  ?  How 
can  she  ?  "  Peter  frowned  over  it  in  bewilderment. 


218  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peggy  said,  "  Girls  are  silly  things.  And  I  suppose 
the  way  one's  been  brought  up  counts,  and  what  one's 
inherited,  and  all  that." 

"  Well,  if  Rhoda'd  taken  after  Mrs.  Johnson  she 
wouldn't  have  liked  Vyvian.  He  used  to  give  her  the 
creeps,  like  a  toad.  She  told  me  so.  She  disliked  him 
more  than  I  did.  .  .  .  Well,  I  shall  never  understand. 
I  suppose  if  I  could  Rhoda  would  have  found  me  more 
sympathetic,  and  might  have  stayed." 

"  Now,  darling,  you're  not  to  sit  up  and  brood  any 
more;  that  won't  help.  You're  coming  straight  back 
with  me  to  dinner,  and  Tommy's  coming  too,  to  sleep. 
I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Adams  to  help  me  get  his  things  to- 
gether." 

"  He  hasn't  many  things,"  said  Peter,  looking 
vaguely  round  for  them.  "  I  got  him  a  rattle  and  a 
ball,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  care  about  them  much ; 
Lucy  says  he's  not  young  enough  yet.  Here's  his  bot- 
tle. And  his  night  clothes  are  upstairs,  and  his  other 
day  clothes,  and  his  bath.  Thomas  leads  the  simple 
life,  though ;  he  really  possesses  very  little ;  I  think  he's 
probably  going  to  be  a  Franciscan  later  on.  But  he  can 
sleep  with  me  here  all  right ;  I  should  like  to  have  him ; 
only  it  would  be  awfully  good  of  you  if  you'd  have  him 
to-morrow,  while  I'm  out  at  work.  But  in  the  night 
he  and  I  rather  like  each  other's  company." 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Peggy.  "  You're  both  coming 
along  to  fifty-one  this  minute.  You  don't  suppose  I'm 
going  to  leave  you  two  infants  alone  together  like  that. 
We've  heaps  of  room  at  fifty-one  " —  she  sighed  a  lit- 
tle — "  people  have  been  fading  away  like  the  flowers 
of  the  forest,  and  we  should  be  thankful  to  have  you 
back." 

"  Oh,  we'll  come  then ;  thanks  very  much,  Peggy." 
Peter's  ready  sympathy  was  turned  on  again,  having 


THE  LOSS  OF  A  WIFE  219 

temporarily  been  available  only  for  himself  and  Rhoda 
and  Thomas.  He  remembered  now  that  Peggy  and 
Hilary  needed  it  too.  He  and  Thomas  would  go  and 
be  boarders  in  the  emptying  boarding-house;  it  might 
amuse  Thomas,  perhaps,  to  see  the  other  boarders. 

"And  we'll  have  him  baptized,"  went  on  Peggy, 
thinking  of  further  diversions  for  Thomas  and  Peter. 
"You'll  let  him  be  a  Catholic,  Peter,  won't  you?" 

"  Thomas,"  said  Peter,  "  can  be  anything  he  likes 
that's  nice.  As  long  as  he's  not  a  bigot.  I  won't  have 
him  refusing  to  go  into  one  sort  of  church  because  he 
prefers  another;  he  mustn't  ever  acquire  the  rejecting 
habit.  Short  of  that,  he  may  enter  any  denomination 
or  denominations  he  prefers." 

They  were  collecting  Thomas's  belongings  as  they 
talked.  Thomas  lay  and  looked  at  them  with  the  very 
blue  slits  that  were  like  his  father's  eyes  grown  old. 
And  suddenly  Peggy,  looking  from  son  to  father,  saw 
that  Peter's  eyes  had  grown  as  old  as  Thomas's,  looking 
wearily  out  of  a  pale,  pinched  face. 

Peggy's  own  eyes  brimmed  over  as  she  bent  over 
Thomas's  night-shirt. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

A    LONG    WAY 

LORD  EVELYN  UEQUHAET  dined  with  his  nephew  on 
the  last  evening  in  February.  It  was  a  characteristic 
Urquhart  dinner-party;  the  guests  were  mostly  cheer- 
ful, well-bred  young  people  of  high  spirits  and  of  the 
worldly  station  that  is  not  much  concerned  with  any 
aspect  of  money  but  the  spending  of  it.  High  living, 
plain  thinking,  agreeable  manners  and  personal  appear- 
ance, plenty  of  humour,  enough  ability  to  make  a  suc- 
cess of  the  business  of  living  and  not  enough  to  agitate 
the  brain,  a  light  tread  along  a  familiar  and  well-laid 
road,  and  a  serene  blindness  to  side-tracks  and  alleys 
not  familiar  nor  well-laid  and  to  those  that  walked 
thereon  —  these  were  the  characteristics  of  the  pleasant 
people  who  frequented  Denis  Urquhart's  pleasant  house 
in  Park  Lane. 

Lucy  was  among  them,  small  and  pale,  and  rather 
silent,  and  intensely  alive.  She,  of  course,  was  a  na- 
tive not  of  Park  Lane  but  of  Chelsea;  and  the  people 
who  had  frequented  her  home  there  were  of  a  different 
sort.  They  had  had,  mostly,  a  different  kind  of  brain, 
a  kind  more  restless  and  troublesome  and  untidy,  and  a 
different  type  of  wit,  more  pungent  and  ironic,  less 
well-fed  and  hilarious,  and  they  were  less  well-dressed 
and  agreeable  to  look  at,  and  had  (perhaps)  higher 
thoughts  (though  how  shall  one  measure  height?)  and 
ate  (certainly)  plainer  food,  for  lack  of  richer.  These 
were  the  people  Lucy  knew.  Her  father  himself  had 

220 


A  LONG  WAY  221 

been  of  these.  She  now  found  her  tent  pitched  among 
the  prosperous ;  and  the  study  of  them  touched  her  wide 
gaze  with  a  new,  pondering  look.  Denis  hadn't  any 
use  for  cranks.  None  of  his  set  were  socialists,  vege- 
tarians, Quakers,  geniuses,  anarchists,  drunkards,  poets, 
anti-breakf asters,  or  anti-hatters ;  none  of  them,  in  fine, 
the  sort  of  person  Lucy  was  used  to.  They  never 
pawned  their  watches  or  walked  down  Bond  Street  in 
Norfolk  coats.  They  had,  no  doubt,  their  hobbies ;  but 
they  were  suitable,  well-bred  hobbies,  that  did  not  ob- 
trude vulgarly  on  other  people's  notice.  Peter  had 
once  said  that  if  he  were  a  plutocrat  he  would  begin 
to  dream  dreams.  Lucy  supposed  that  the  seemingly 
undreaming  people  who  were  Denis's  friends  were  not 
rich  enough;  they  hadn't  reached  plutocracy,  where  ro- 
mance resides,  but  merely  prosperity,  which  has  fewer 
possibilities.  Lucy  began  in  these  days  to  ponder  on 
the  exceeding  evil  of  Socialism,  which  the  devil  has  put 
it  into  certain  men's  hearts  to  desire.  For,  thought 
Lucy,  sweep  away  the  romantic  rich,  sweep  away  the 
dreaming  destitute,  and  what  have  you  left?  The 
prosperous;  the  comfortable;  the  serenely  satisfied;  the 
sanely  reasonable.  Dives,  with  his  purple  and  fine 
linen,  his  sublime  outlook  over  a  world  he  may  possess 
at  a  touch,  goes  to  his  own  place;  Lazarus,  with  his 
wallet  for  crusts  and  his  place  among  the  dogs  and  his 
sharp  wonder  at  the  world's  black  heart,  is  gathered  to 
his  fathers:  there  remain  the  sanitary  dwellings  of  the 
comfortable,  the  monotonous  external  adequacy  that 
touches  no  man's  inner  needs,  the  lifeless  rigour  of  a 
superintended  well-being.  Decidedly,  thought  Lucy, 
siding  with  the  Holy  Roman  Church,  a  scheme  of  the 
devil's.  Denis  and  his  friends  also  thought  it  was  rot. 
So  no  doubt  it  was.  Denis  belonged  to  the  Conserva- 
tive party.  Lucy  thought  parties  funny  things,  and 


222  THE  LEE  SHORE 

laughed.  Though  she  had  of  late  taken  to  wandering 
far  into  seas  of  thought,  so  that  her  wide  forehead  was 
often  puckered  as  she  sat  silent,  she  still  laughed  at  the 
world.  Perhaps  the  more  one  thinks  about  it  the  more 
one  laughs ;  the  height  and  depth  of  its  humour  are  cer- 
tainly unfathomable. 

On  this  last  night  of  February,  Lord  Evelyn,  when 
the  other  guests  had  gone,  put  his  unsteady  white  hand 
under  Lucy's  chin  and  raised  her  small  pale  face  and 
looked  at  it  out  of  his  near-sighted,  scrutinising  eyes, 
and  said: 

"  Humph.     You're  thinner." 

Lucy's  eyes  laughed  up  at  him. 

"  Am  I  ?     I  suppose  I'm  growing  old." 

"  You're  worrying.  What's  it  about  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Evelyn. 

They  were  in  the  library.  Lord  Evelyn  and  Denis 
sat  by  the  fire  in  leather  chairs  and  smoked,  and  Lucy 
sat  on  a  hassock  between  them,  her  chin  in  her  hands. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked  up 
at  Denis,  who  was  reading  Punch,  and  said,  "  I've  had 
a  letter  from  Peggy  Margerison  this  morning." 

Denis  gave  a  sound  between  a  grunt  and  a  chuckle. 
The  grunt  element  was  presumably  for  Peggy  Marger- 
ison, the  chuckle  for  Punch. 

Lord  Evelyn,  tapping  his  eye-glass  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  said,  "  Well  ?  Well  ?  "  impatiently,  nervously. 

Lucy  drew  a  note  from  her  pocket  (she  was  never 
pocketless)  and  spread  it  on  her  knees.  It  was  a  long 
letter  on  crinkly  paper,  written  in  a  large,  dashing, 
sprawling  hand,  full  of  curls,  generosities,  extrava- 
gances. 

"  She  says,"  said  Lucy,  "  (Please  listen,  Denis,)  that 
—  that  they  want  money." 

"  I  somehow  thought  that  would  be  what  she  said," 


A  LONG  WAY  223 

Denis  murmured,  still  half  preoccupied.  "  I'm  sure 
she's  right." 

"  A  woman  who  writes  a  hand  like  that,"  put  in 
Lord  Evelyn,  "will  always  spend  more  than  she  has. 
A  hole  in  the  purse ;  a  hole  in  the  purse." 

"  She  says,"  went  on  Lucy,  looking  through  the  letter 
with  wrinkled  forehead,  "  that  they're  all  very  hard- 
up  indeed.  Of  course,  I  knew  that ;  I  can  see  it  when- 
ever I  go  there;  only  Peter  will  never  take  more  than 
silly  little  clothes  and  things  for  Thomas.  And  now 
Peggy  says  they're  in  great  straits;  Thomas  is  going 
to  teethe  or  something,  and  wants  better  milk,  all  from 
one  cow,  and  they're  all  awfully  in  debt." 

"  I  should  fancy  that  was  chronic,"  remarked  Denis, 
turning  to  Essence  of  Parliament. 

"  A  hole  in  the  purse,  a  hole  in  the  purse,"  muttered 
Lord  Evelyn,  tapping  with  his  eye-glass. 

"  Peggy  says  that  Peter  won't  ask  for  help  himself, 
but  he's  let  her,  it  seems.  And  their  boarders  are 
nearly  all  gone,  one  of  them  quite  suddenly,  without 
paying  a  sixpence  for  all  the  time  he  was  there." 

"  I  suppose  he  didn't  think  he'd  had  sixpence  worth," 
said  Denis.  "  He  was  probably  right." 

"  And  Thomas  is  still  very  delicate  after  his  bron- 
chitis, and  Peter's  got  a  bad  cold  on  the  chest  and 
wants  more  cough-mixture  than  they  can  afford  to  buy ; 
and  they  owe  money  to  the  butcher  and  the  fishmonger 
and  the  baker  and  the  doctor  and  the  tailor,  and  Hilary's 
lost  his  latest  job  and  isn't  earning  anything  at  all. 
So  I  suppose  Peter  is  keeping  the  family." 

"  Scamps ; .  scamps  all,"  muttered  Lord  Evelyn. 
"  Deserve  all  they  get,  and  more.  People  like  the 
Margerisons  an't  worth  helping.  They'd  best  go  under 
at  once ;  best  go  under.  Swindlers  and  scamps,  the  lot 
of  them.  I  daresay  the  woman's  stories  are  half  lies; 


224  THE  LEE  SHORE 

of  course,  they  want  money,  but  it's  probably  only  to 
spend  on  nonsense.  Why  can't  they  keep  themselves, 
like  decent  people  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Lucy,  dismissing  that  as  absurd,  "  they 
can't.  Of  course  they  can't.  They  never  could  .  .  . 
Denis." 

"  Lucy."  Denis  absently  put  out  a  hand  to  meet 
hers. 

"  How  much  shall  we  give  them,  Denis  ?  " 

Denis  dropped  Punch  onto  the  floor,  and  lay  back 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  fair  head.  Lucy, 
looking  at  his  up-turned,  foreshortened,  cleanly-mod- 
elled face,  thought  with  half  of  her  mind  what  a  per- 
fect thing  it  was.  Sudden  aspects  of  Denis's  beauty 
sometimes  struck  her  breathless,  as  they  struck  Peter. 

"  The  Margerison  family  wants  money,  I  under- 
stand," said  Denis,  who  hadn't  been  listening  atten- 
tively. 

"  Very  badly,  Denis." 

Denis  nodded.  "  They  always  do,  of  course.  .  .  . 
Well,  is  it  our  business  to  fill  the  bottomless  Margeri- 
son purse  ? " 

Lucy  sat  very  still,  looking  up  at  him  with  wide 
eyes. 

"  Our  business  ?  I  don't  know.  But,  of  course,  if 
Peter  and  Peter's  people  want  anything,  we  shall  give 
it  them." 

"  But  I  gather  it's  not  Peter  that  asks  ?  Peter 
never  asks,  does  he?" 

"  No,"  said  Lucy.  "  Peter  never  asks.  Not  even 
for  Thomas." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  inclined  to  trust  Peter  rather 
than  his  charming  family.  Peter's  name  seems  to  be 
dragged  into  that  letter  a  good  deal,  but  it  doesn't  fol- 
low that  Peter  sanctioned  it.  I'm  not  going  to  annoy 


A  LONG  WAY  225 

Peter  by  sending  him  what  he's  never  asked  for.  I 
should  think  probably  Peter  knows  they  can  get  on 
all  right  as  they  are,  and  that  this  letter  must  be  taken 
with  a  good  deal  of  salt.  I  expect  the  egregious  Hilary 
only  wants  the  money  for  some  new  enterprise  of  his 
own,  that  will  fail,  as  usual.  Anyhow,  I  really  don't 
fancy  having  any  further  dealings  with  Hilary  Mar- 
gerison  or  his  wife;  I've  had  enough  there.  He's  the 
most  impossible  cad  and  swindler." 

"  Swindlers  all,  swindlers  all,"  said  Lord  Evelyn, 
getting  up  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

Lucy,  after  a  moment,  said  simply,  "  I  shall  give 
them  something,  Denis.  I  must.  Don't  you  see? 
Whoever  it  was,  I  would.  Because  anyhow,  they're 
poor  and  we're  rich,  and  they  want  things  we  can  give 
them.  It's  so  obvious  that  when  people  ask  one  for 
things  they  must  have  them  if  one  can  give  them.  And 
when  it's  Peter  who's  in  want,  and  Peter's  baby,  and 
Peter's  people  .  .  ." 

"  You  see,"  said  Denis,  "  I  doubt  about  Peter  or 
the  baby  benefiting  by  anything  we  give  them.  It  will 
all  go  down  the  drain  where  Hilary  Margerison's  money 
flows  away.  Give  it  to  Peter  or  give  it  to  his  relations, 
it'll  come  to  the  same  thing.  Peter  gives  them  every 
penny  he  gets,  I  don't  doubt.  You  know  what  Peter 
is;  he's  as  weak  as  a  baby  in  his  step-brother's  hands; 
he  lets  himself  be  dragged  into  the  most  disgraceful 
transactions  because  he  can't  say  no." 

Lucy  looked  up  at  him,  open-eyed,  pale,  quiet. 

"  You  think  of  Peter  like  that  ? "  she  said,  and  her 
voice  trembled  a  little. 

Lord  Evelyn  stopped  in  his  walk  and  listened. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Lucy,"  said  Denis,  throwing  away  his 
cigar-end.  "  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against 


226  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter  to  you.  But  .  .  .  one  must  judge  by  facts,  you 
know.  I  don't  mean  that  Peter  means  any  harm ;  but, 
as  I  say,  he's  weak.  I'm  fond  of  Peter,  you  know;  I 
wish  to  goodness  he  wouldn't  play  the  fool  as  he  does, 
mixing  himself  up  with  his  precious  relations  and  help- 
ing them  in  their  idiotic  schemes  for  swindling  money 
out  of  people  —  but  there  it  is;  he  will  do  it;  and  as 
long  as  he  does  it  I  don't  feel  moved  to  have  much  to 
do  with  him.  I  should  send  him  money  if  he  asked 
me  personally,  of  course,  even  if  I  knew  it  would  only 
.go  into  his  brother's  pocket;  but  I'm  not  going  to  do 
it  at  his  sister-in-law's  command.  If  you  ask  me 
whether  I  feel  inclined  to  help  Hilary  Margerison  and 
his  wife,  my  answer  is  simply  no  I  don't.  They're 
merely  scum ;  and  why  should  one  have  anything  to  do 
with  scum  ? " 

Lucy  looked  at  him  silently  for  a  while.  Then  she 
said  slowly,  "  I  see.  Yes,  I  see  you  wouldn't  want  to, 
of  course.  They  are  scum.  And  you're  not.  But  I 
am,  I  think.  I  belong  to  the  same  sort  of  people  they 
do.  I  could  swindle  and  cheat  too,  I  expect.  It's  the 
people  at  the  bottom  who  do  that.  They're  my  rela- 
tions, you  see,  not  yours." 

"  My  dear  Lucy,  only  Peter  is  your  relation." 

"  Peter  and  Thomas.  And  I  count  the  rest  too,  be- 
cause they're  Peter's.  So  let  me  do  all  that  is  to  be 
done,  Denis.  Don't  you  bother.  I'll  take  them 
money." 

"  Let  them  alone,  Lucy.  You'd  better,  you  know. 
What's  the  good  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lucy.  "  None,  I  expect. 
None  at  all;  because  Peter  wouldn't  take  it  from  me 
without  you." 

She  came  a  little  nearer  him,  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  knee  like  a  wistful  puppy. 


A  LONG  WAY  227 

! 

"  Denis/'  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  would.  They  know 
already  that  I  care.  But  I  wish  you  would.  Peter'd 
like  you  to.  He'd  be  more  pleased  than  if  I  did ;  much 
more.  Peter  cares  for  you  and  me  and  Thomas  ex- 
traordinarily much ;  and  you  can't  compare  carings,  but 
the  way  he  cares  for  you  is  the  most  wonderful  of  all, 
I  believe.  If  you  went  to  him  ...  if  you  showed 
him  you  cared  .  .  .  he'd  take  it  from  you.  He 
wouldn't  take  it  from  me  without  you,  because  he'd 
suspect  you  weren't  wanting  him  to  have  it.  Denis, 
won't  you  go  to  Peter,  as  you  used  to  do  long  ago,  be- 
fore he  was  in  disgrace  and  poor,  before  he  was  scum  ? 
Can't  you,  Denis  ?  " 

Denis  had  coloured  faintly.  He  always  did  when 
people  were  emotional.  Lucy  seldom  was;  she  had  a 
delicious  morning  freshness  that  was  like  the  cool  wind 
on  the  hills  in  spring. 

"  Peter  never  comes  here,  Lucy,  does  he.  If  he 
wanted  to  see  me,  I  suppose  he  would." 

Lucy  was  looking  strangely  at  the  beautiful  face  with 
the  faint  flush  rising  in  it.  She  apparently  thought  no 
reply  necessary  to  his  words,  but  said  again,  "  Can't 
you,  Denis?  Or  is  it  too  hard,  too  much  bother,  too 
much  stepping  out  of  the  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  not  the  bother,  of  course.  But  .  .  .  but 
I  really  don't  see  anything  to  be  gained  by  it,  that's 
the  fact.  .  .  .  Our  meetings,  on  the  last  few  occasions 
when  we  have  met,  haven't  been  particularly  comforta- 
ble. I  don't  think  Peter  likes  them  any  better  than  I 
do.  .  .  .  One  can't  force  intercourse,  Lucy;  if  it 
doesn't  run  easily  and  smoothly,  it  had  better  be  left 
alone.  There  have  been  things  between  us,  between 
Peter's  family  and  my  family,  that  can't  be  forgotten 
or  put  aside  by  either  of  us,  I  suppose;  and  I  don't 
think  Peter  wants  to  be  reminded  of  them  by  seeing 


228  THE  LEE  SHORE 

me  any  more  than  I  do  by  seeing  him.  It's  —  it's  so 
beastly  uncomfortable,  you  know,"  he  added  boyishly, 
ruffling  up  his  hair  with  his  hand ;  and  concluded  didac- 
tically, "  People  must  drift  apart  if  their  ways  lie  in 
quite  different  spheres;  it's  inevitable." 

Denis,  who  had  a  boyish  reticence,  had  expanded  and 
explained  himself  more  than  usuaL 

Lucy's  hand  dropped  from  his  knee  on  to  her  own. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  inevitable,"  she  said,  beneath  her 
breath.  "  I  suppose  the  distance  is  too  great.  'Tis 
such  a  long,  long  way  from  here  to  there  .  .  .  such  a 
long,  long  way.  .  .  .  Good-night,  Denis;  I'm  going  to 
bed." 

She  got  up  slowly,  cramped  and  tired  and  pale.  It 
was  not  till  she  was  on  her  feet  that  she  saw  Lord 
Evelyn  sitting  in  the  background,  and  remembered  his 
presence.  She  had  forgotten  him ;  she  had  been  think- 
ing only  of  Denis  and  Peter  and  herself.  She  didn't 
know  if  he  had  been  listening  much;  he  sat  quietly, 
nursing  his  knee,  saying  nothing. 

But  when  Lucy  had  gone  he  said  to  Denis,  "  You're 
right,  Denis ;  you're  utterly  right,  not  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  those  swindlers,"  and,  as  if  in  a  sudden 
fresh  anger  against  them,  he  began  again  his  quick,  un- 
even pacing  down  the  room. 

"  False  through  and  through,"  he  muttered.  "  False 
through  and  through." 

Lucy's  face,  as  she  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  said 
"  Good  night,  Uncle  Evelyn,"  had  been  so  like  Peter's 
as  he  had  last  seen  it,  when  Peter  had  passed  him  in 
the  doorway  at  Astleys,  that  it  had  taken  his  breath 


CHAPTER  XVII 

QUAERELS    IS    THE    BAIN 

Iw  Brook  Street  the  rain  fell.  It  fell  straight  and  dis- 
consolate, unutterably  wet,  splashing  drearily  on  the 
paved  street  between  the  rows  of  wet  houses.  It  fell 
all  day,  from  the  dim  dawn,  through  the  murky  noon, 
to  the  dark  evening,  desolately  weeping  over  a  tired 
city. 

Inside  number  fifty-one,  Peggy  mended  clothes  and 
sang  a  little  song,  with  Thomas  in  her  lap,  and  Peter, 
sitting  in  the  window-seat,  knitted  Thomas  a  sweater 
of  Cambridge  blue.  Peter  was  getting  rather  good  at 
knitting.  Hilary  was  there  too,  but  not  mending,  or 
knitting,  or  singing ;  he  was  coughing,  and  complaining 
of  the  climate. 

"  I  fancy  it  is  going  to  be  influenza,"  he  observed  at 
intervals,  shivering.  "  I  feel  extraordinarily  weak,  and 
ache  all  up  my  back.  I  fancy  I  have  a  high  tempera- 
ture, only  Peter  has  broken  the  thermometer.  You  were 
a  hundred  and  four,  I  think,  Peter,  the  day  you  went 
to  bed.  I  rather  expect  I  am  a  hundred  and  five. 
But  I  suppose  I  shall  never  know,  as  it  is  impossible 
to  afford  another  thermometer.  I  feel  certain  it  is  in- 
fluenza; and  in  that  case  I  must  give  up  all  hope  of 
getting  that  job  from  Pickering,  as  I  cannot  possibly 
go  and  see  him  to-morrow.  Not  but  that  it  would  be 
a  detestable  job,  anyhow ;  but  anything  to  keep  our  heads 
above  water.  .  .  .  My  headache  is  now  like  a  hot  metal 
band  all  round  my  head,  Peggy." 

229 


230  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Poor  old  boy,"  said  Peggy.  "  Take  some  more 
phenacetine.  And  do  go  to  bed,  Hilary.  If  you  have 
got  flu,  you'll  only  make  yourself  as  bad  as  Peter  did 
by  staying  up  too  long.  You've  neither  of  you  any 
more  sense  than  Tommy  here,  nor  so  much,  by  a  long 
way,  have  they,  little  man?  No,  Kitty,  let  him  be; 
you'd  only  drop  him  on  the  floor  if  I  let  you,  and  then 
he'd  break,  you  know." 

Silvio  was  kneeling  up  on  the  window-seat  by  Peter's 
side,  taking  an  interest  in  the  doings  of  the  street. 

Peggy  said,  "  Well,  Larry,  what's  the  news  of  the 
great  world  ? " 

"  It's  raining,"  said  Silvio,  who  had  something  of  the 
mournful  timbre  of  Hilary's  voice  in  his. 

Peggy  said,  "  Oh,  darling,  be  more  interesting !  I'm 
horribly  afraid  you're  going  to  grow  up  obvious,  Larry, 
and  that  will  never  do.  What  else  is  it  doing  ?  " 

"  There's  a  cat  in  the  rain,"  said  Silvio,  flattening  his 
nose  against  the  blurred  glass,  and  manifestly  inclined 
to  select  the  sadder  aspects  of  the  world's  news  for  re- 
tail. That  tendency  too,  perhaps,  he  inherited  from 
Hilary. 

Presently  he  added,  "  There's  a  taxi  coming  up  the 
street,"  and  Peggy  placed  Thomas  on  Peter's  knees 
and  came  to  the  window  to  look.  When  she  had  looked 
she  said  to  Peter,  "  It  must  be  nearly  six  o'clock  "  (the 
clock  gained  seventeen  minutes  a  day,  so  that  the  time 
was  always  a  matter  for  nicer  calculation  than  Peggy 
could  usually  afford  to  give  it)  ;  "  and  if  Hilary's  got 
flu,  I  should  think  Tommy'd  be  best  out  of  the  room. 
...  I  haven't  easily  the  time  to  put  him  to  bed  this 
evening,  really." 

Peter  accepted  the  suggestion  and  conveyed  his  son 
from  the  room.  As  he  did  so,  someone  knocked  at  the 
front  door,  and  Peggy  ran  downstairs  to  open  it. 


QUARRELS  IN  THE  RAIN          231 

She  let  in  the  unhappy  noise  of  the  rain  and  a  tall, 
slim  person  in  a  fur  coat. 

Peggy  was  surprised,  and  (most  rarely)  a  little  em- 
barrassed. It  wasn't  the  person  she  had  looked  for. 
She  even,  in  her  unwonted  confusion,  let  the  visitor 
speak  first. 

He  said,  "  Is  Mr.  Peter  Margerison  in  ? "  frostily, 
giving  her  no  sign  of  recognition. 

"  He  is  not,  Lord  Evelyn,"  said  Peggy,  hastily. 
"  That  is,  he  is  busy  with  the  baby  upstairs.  Will  I 
take  him  a  message  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  tell  him  I  have  called  to 
see  him." 

"  I  will,  Lord  Evelyn.  Will  you  come  up  to  the 
drawing-room  while  I  get  him  ?  " 

Peggy  led  the  way,  drawing  meanwhile  on  the  re- 
sources of  a  picturesque  imagination. 

"  He  may  be  a  little  while  before  he  can  leave  the 
baby,  Lord  Evelyn.  Poor  mite,  it's  starved  with  hun- 
ger, the  way  it  cries  and  cries  and  won't  leave  off,  and 
Peter  has  to  cheer  it." 

Lord  Evelyn  grunted.  The  steep  stairs  made  him  a 
little  short  of  breath,  and  not  sympathetic. 

"  And  even,"  went  on  Peggy,  stopping  outside  the 
drawing-room  door,  "  even  when  it  does  get  a  feed  of 
milk,  it's  to-day  from  one  kind  of  cow,  to-morrow  from 
another.  Why,  you'd  think  all  the  cows  in  England, 
turn  and  turn  about,  supplied  that  poor  child  with 
milk;  and  you  know  they  get  pains  from  changing. 
It's  not  right,  poor  baby;  but  what  can  we  and  his 
father  do  ?  The  same  with  his  scraps  of  clothes  — • 
this  weather  he'd  a  right  to  be  having  new  warm  ones 
—  but  there  he  lies  crying  for  the  cold  in  his  little 
thin  out-grown  things;  it  brings  the  tears  to  one's  eyes 
to  see  him.  And  he's  not  the  only  one,  either.  His 


232  THE  LEE  SHORE 

father's  just  out  of  an  illness,  and  keeps  a  cough  on  the 
chest  because  he  can't  afford  a  warm  waistcoat  or  the 
only  cough-mixture  that  cures  him.  .  .  .  But  Peter 
wouldn't  like  me  to  be  telling  you  all  this.  Will  you  go 
in  there,  Lord  Evelyn,  and  wait  ? " 

She  paused  another  moment,  her  hand  on  the  handle. 

"You'll  not  tell  Peter  I  told  you  anything.  He'd 
not  be  pleased.  He'll  not  breathe  a  word  to  you  of  it 
himself  —  indeed,  he'll  probably  say  it's  not  so." 

Lord  Evelyn  made  no  comment ;  he  merely  tapped  his 
cane  on  the  floor ;  he  seemed  impatient  to  have  the  door 
opened. 

"  And,"  added  Peggy,  "  if  ever  you  chanced  to  be 
offering  him  anything  —  I  mean,  you  might  be  for  giv- 
ing him  a  birthday  present,  or  a  Xmas  present  or  some- 
thing sometime  —  you'd  do  best  to  put  it  as  a  gift  to 
the  baby,  or  he'll  never  take  it." 

Having  concluded  her  diplomacy,  she  opened  the 
door  and  ushered  him  into  the  room,  where  Hilary  sat 
with  his  headache  and  the  children  played  noisily  at 
horses. 

"  Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart  come  to  see  Peter,"  called 
Peggy  into  the  room.  "  Come  along  out  of  that,  chil- 
dren, and  keep  yourselves  quiet  somewhere." 

She  bundled  them  out  and  shut  the  door  on  Lord 
Evelyn  and  Hilary. 

Hilary  rose  dizzily  to  his  feet  and  bowed.  Lord 
Evelyn  returned  the  courtesy  distantly,  and  stood  by 
the  door,  as  far  as  possible  from  his  host. 

"  This  is  good  of  you,"  said  Hilary,  "  to  come  and  see 
us  in  our  fallen  estate.  Do  sit  down." 

Lord  Evelyn,  putting  his  glass  into  his  eye  and  turn- 
ing it  upon  Hilary  as  if  in  astonishment  at  his  imper- 
tinence in  addressing  him,  said  curtly,  "  I  came  to 
see  your  half-brother.  I  had  not  the  least  intention, 


QUARRELS  IN  THE  RAIN          233 

nor  the  least  desire,  to  see  anyone  else  whatever;  nor 
have  I  now." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Hilary,  his  teeth  chattering  with 
fever.  (His  temperature,  though  he  would  never 
know,  as  Peter  had  broken  the  thermometer,  must  be 
anyhow  a  hundred  and  three,  he  was  sure.)  "  Quite 
so.  But  that  doesn't  affect  my  gratitude  to  you. 
Peter's  friends  are  mine.  I  must  thank  you  for  re- 
membering Peter." 

Lord  Evelyn,  presumably  not  seeing  the  necessity, 
was  silent. 

"  We  have  not  met,"  Hilary  went  on,  passing  his  hot 
hand  over  his  fevered  brow,  where  the  headache  ran 
all  round  like  a  hot  metal  band,  "  for  a  very  long  time, 
Lord  Evelyn;  if  we  put  aside  that  momentary  encoun- 
ter at  Astleys  last  year."  Hilary  did  put  that  aside, 
rather  hastily,  and  went  on,  "  Apart  from  that,  we  have 
not  met  since  we  were  both  in  Venice,  nearly  two  years 
ago.  Lord  Evelyn,  I  have  often  wished  to  tell  you 
how  very  deeply  I  have  regretted  certain  events  that 
came  between  us  there.  I  think  there  is  a  great  deal 
that  I  might  explain  to  you.  .  .  ." 

Lord  Evelyn,  with  averted  face,  said,  "  Be  good 
enough  to  be  silent,  sir.  I  have  no  desire  to  hear  any 
of  your  remarks.  I  have  come  merely  to  see  your  half- 
brother." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hilary,  who  was  sensitive,  "  if 
you  take  that  line,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  between 
you  and  me." 

Lord  Evelyn  acknowledged  this  admission  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  sir." 

So  there  was  silence,  till  Peter  came  in,  pale  and 
sickly  and  influenzaish,  but  with  a  smile  for  Lord 
Evelyn.  It  was  extraordinarily  nice  of  Lord  Evelyn, 


234  THE  LEE  SHORE 

he  thought,  to  have  come  all  the  way  to  Brook  Street 
in  the  rain  to  see  him. 

Lord  Evelyn  looked  at  him  queerly,  intently,  out  of 
his  short-sighted  eyes  as  they  shook  hands. 

"  I  wish  to  talk  to  you,"  he  remarked,  with  meaning. 

Hilary  took  the  hint,  looked  proud,  said,  "  I  see 
that  my  room  is  preferred  to  my  company,"  and  went 
away. 

When  he  had  gone,  Peter  said,  "  Do  sit  down,"  but 
Lord  Evelyn  took  no  notice  of  that.  He  had  come  to 
see  Peter  in  his  need,  but  he  had  not  forgiven  him,  and 
he  would  remain  standing  in  his  house.  Peter  had 
once  hurt  him  so  badly  that  the  mere  sight  of  him 
quickened  his  breath  and  flushed  his  cheek.  He  tapped 
his  cane  impatiently  against  his  grey  spats. 

"  You're  ill,"  he  said,  accusingly. 

"  Oh,  I've  only  had  flu,"  said  Peter;  "  I'm  all  right 
now." 

"  You're  ill,"  Lord  Evelyn  repeated.  "  Don't  con- 
tradict me,  sir.  You're  ill ;  you're  in  want ;  and  you're 
bringing  up  a  baby  on  insufficient  diet.  What  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Peter.  "  I  am  not  in  want,  nor  is 
Thomas.  Thomas'  diet  is  so  sufficient  that  I'm  often 
afraid  he'll  burst  with  it." 

Lord  Evelyn  said,  "  You're  probably  lying.  But  if 
you're  not,  why  d'ye  countenance  your  sister-in-law's 
begging  letters?  You're  a  hypocrite,  sir.  But  that's 
nothing  I  didn't  know  before,  you  may  say.  Well, 
you're  right  there." 

Lord  Evelyn's  anger  was  working  up.  He  hadn't 
known  it  would  be  so  difficult  to  talk  to  Peter  and  re- 
main calm. 

"  You  want  to  make  a  fool  of  me  again,"  he  broke 
out,  "  so  you  join  in  a  lying  letter  and  bring  me  here 


QUARRELS  IN  THE  RAIN          235 

on  false  pretences.  At  least,  I  suppose  it  was  really 
Lucy  you  thought  to  bring.  You  play  on  Lucy's  soft 
heart,  knowing  you  can  squeeze  money  out  of  her  — 
and  so  you  can  afford  to  say  you've  no  use  for  mine. 
Is  that  it  ?  " 

Peter  said,  dully  looking  at  his  anger  as  at  an  ancient 
play  re-staged,  "  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
I  know  nothing  of  any  letter.  And  you  don't  suppose 
I  should  take  your  money,  or  Lucy's  either.  Why 
should  I  ?  I  don't  want  money." 

Lord  Evelyn  was  pacing  petulantly  up  and  down  the 
shabby  carpet,  waving  his  cane  as  he  walked. 

"  Oh,  you  know  nothing  of  any  letter,  don't  you. 
Well,  ask  your  sister-in-law,  then;  ask  that  precious 
brother  of  yours.  Haven't  you  always  chosen  to  hang 
on  to  them  and  join  in  their  dirty  tricks?  And  now 
you  turn  round  and  say  you  know  nothing  of  their  do- 
ings; a  pretty  story.  .  .  .  Now  look  here,  Mr.  Peter 
Margerison,  you've  asked  for  money  and  you  shall  take 
it,  d'ye  see  ?  " 

Peter  flung  at  him,  in  a  qiieer  and  quite  new  hot 
bitterness  and  anger  (it  was  perhaps  the  result  of  in- 
fluenza, which  has  strange  after  effects).  "  You've  no 
right  to  come  here  and  say  these  things  to  me.  I 
didn't  want  you  to  come;  I  never  asked  you  to;  and 
now  I  never  want  to  see  you  again.  Please  go,  Lord 
Evelyn." 

Lord  Evelyn  paused  in  his  walk,  and  stood  looking 
at  him  for  a  moment,  his  lips  parted  to  speak,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him  over  the  gold  head  of  his 
cane. 

Then,  into  the  ensuing  silence,  came  Lucy,  small 
and  pale  and  wet  in  her  grey  furs,  and  stood  like  a 
startled  kitten,  her  wide  eyes  turning  from  one  angry 
face  to  the  other. 


236  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter  said  to  her,  in  a  voice  she  had  never  heard 
from  him  before,  "  So  you've  come  too." 

Lord  Evelyn  tittered  disagreeably.  "  Didn't  expect 
her,  of  course,  did  you.  So  unlikely  she'd  come,  after 
getting  a  letter  like  that.  ...  I  suppose  you're  won- 
dering, Lucy,  what  I'm  doing  dans  cette  galere." 

"  No,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  wasn't.  I  know.  You've 
come  to  see  Peter,  like  me." 

He  laughed  again.  "  Yes,  that's  it.  Like  you. 
And  now  he  pretends  he  won't  take  the  money  he  asked 
for,  Lucy.  Won't  be  beholden  to  me  at  any  price. 
Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for  you." 

Lucy  was  looking  at  Peter,  who  looked  so  ill  and  so 
strange  and  new.  Never  before  had  he  looked  at  her 
like  that,  with  hard  eyes.  Peter  was  angry;  the  skies 
had  fallen. 

She  said,  and  put  out  her  hands  to  him,  "  What's 
the  matter,  Peter?  Don't  .  .  .  don't  look  like  that. 
.  .  .  Oh,  you're  ill ;  do  sit  down ;  it's  so  stupid  to  stand 
about." 

Peter  said,  his  own  hands  hanging  at  his  sides,  "  Do 
you  mind  going  away,  both  of  you.  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  talk  to  either  of  you  to-day.  ...  I  suppose 
you've  brought  money  to  give  me  too,  Lucy,  have 
you?" 

Lucy  coloured  faintly  over  her  small  pale  face. 

"  I  won't  give  you  anything  you  don't  like,  Peter. 
But  I  may  give  a  present  to  Thomas,  mayn't  I  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Peter,  without  interest  or  emotion. 

So  they  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment,  facing  each 
other,  Lucy  full-handed  and  impotent  before  Peter 
whose  empty  hands  hung  closed  and  unreceiving ;  Lucy 
and  Peter,  who  had  once  been  used  to  go  shares  and  to 
give  and  take  like  two  children,  and  who  could  give  and 
take  no  more;  and  in  the  silence  something  oddly  vi- 


QUARRELS  IN  THE  RAIN          237 

brated,  so  that  Lord  Evelyn,  the  onlooker,  abruptly 
moved  and  spoke. 

"  Come  home,  Lucy.  He's  told  us  he'll  have  none  of 
us." 

Lucy  still  stood  pleading,  like  a  child ;  then,  at  Lord 
Evelyn's  touch  on  her  arm,  she  suddenly  began  to  cry, 
again  like  a  child,  helpless  and  conquered. 

At  her  tears  Peter  turned  away  sharply,  and  walked 
to  the  window. 

"  Please  go,"  he  said.     "  Please  go." 

They  went,  Lucy  quietly  crying,  and  Lord  Evelyn, 
suddenly  become  oddly  gentle,  comforting  her. 

At  the  door  he  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  round 
at  Peter,  hesitated,  took  a  step  back  towards  him,  began 
to  say  something. 

"Peter.  .  .  ." 

Then  Peggy  came  in,  followed  by  Hilary.  Lord 
Evelyn  shut  his  lips  lightly,  bowed,  and  followed  Lucy 
downstairs.  Peggy  went  after  them  to  let  them  out. 

Hilary  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  Peter?     Well?" 

Peter  turned  round  from  the  window,  and  Hilary 
started  at  his  face. 

"  My  dear  boy,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Then  Peggy  came  in,  her  eyes  full  of  dismayed  vexa- 
tion, but  laughter  twitching  at  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  my  dears !  What  a  mood  they're  in !  Lord 
Evelyn  looked  at  me  to  destroy  me  —  and  Lucy  crying 
as  if  she'd  never  stop;  I  tried  to  make  her  take  some 
sal  volatile,  but  he  wouldn't  let  her,  but  wisked  her 
into  her  carriage  and  shut  the  door  in  my  face.  Mercy, 
what  temper !  " 

The  last  words  may  not  have  had  exclusive  reference 
to  Lord  Evelyn,  as  Peggy  was  now  looking  at  Peter  in 
some  astonishment  and  alarm.  When  Peter  looked 


238  THE  LEE  SHORE 

angry,  everyone  was  so  surprised  that  they  wanted  to 
take  his  temperature  and  send  him  to  bed.  Peggy 
would  have  liked  to  do  that  now,  but  really  didn't  dare. 

What  had  come  to  the  child,  she  wondered  ? 

"  What  did  they  talk  about,  Peter  ?  A  funny  thing 
their  coming  within  half  an  hour  of  each  other  like 
that,  wasn't  it.  And  I  never  thought  to  see  Lord 
Evelyn  here,  I  must  say.  Now  I  wonder  why  was 
Lucy  crying  and  he  so  cross  ?  " 

j  Peter  left  her  to  wonder  that,  and  said  merely,  "  Once 
for  all,  I  won't  have  it.  You  shall  not  beg  for  money 
and  bring  my  name  into  it.  It's  —  it's  horrid." 

With  a  weak,  childish  word  his  anger  seemed  to  ex- 
plode and  die  away.  After  all,  no  anger  of  Peter's 
could  last  long.  And  somehow,  illogically,  his  anger 
here  was  more  with  the  Urquharts  than  with  the  Mar- 
gerisons  and  most  with  Lucy.  One  is,  of  course,  most 
angry,  with  those  who  have  most  power  to  hurt. 

Suddenly  feeling  rather  ill,  Peter  collapsed  into  a 
chair. 

Peggy,  coming  and  kneeling  by  him,  half  comfort- 
ing, half  reproaching,  said,  "  Oh,  Peter  darling,  you 
haven't  been  refusing  money,  when  you  know  you 
and  Tommy  and  all  of  us  need  it  so  much  ?  " 

Hilary  said,  "  Peter  has  no  regard  whatever  for  what 
we  all  need.  He  simply  doesn't  care.  I  suppose  now 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  afford  even  a  new  thermome- 
ter to  replace  the  one  Peter  broke.  Again,  why  should 
it  matter  to  Peter?  He  took  his  own  temperature  all 
through  his  illness,  and  I  suppose  that  is  all  he  cares 
about.  I  wonder  how  much  fever  I  have  at  this  mo- 
ment. Is  my  pulse  very  wild,  Peggy  ?  " 

"  It  is  not,"  said  Peggy,  soothingly,  without  feeling 
it.  "  And  I  daresay  Peter's  temperature  is  as  high  as 
yours  now,  if  we  knew;  he  looks  like  it.  Well,  Peter, 


QUARRELS  IN  THE  RAIN          239 

it  was  stupid  of  you,  my  dear,  wasn't  it,  to  say  no  to 
a  present  and  hurt  their  feelings  that  way  when  they'd 
been  so  good  as  to  come  in  the  rain  and  all.  If  they 
offer  it  again " 

Peter  said,  "  They  won't.  They  won't  come  here 
again,  ever.  They've  done  with  us,  I'm  glad  to  say, 
and  we  with  them.  So  you  needn't  write  to  them 
again ;  it  will  he  no  use." 

Peter  was  certainly  cross.  Peggy  and  Hilary  looked 
at  him  in  surprised  disapproval.  How  silly.  "Where 
was  the  use  of  having  friends  if  one  treated  them  in  this 
unkind,  proud  way  ? 

"  Peter,"  said  Hilary,  "  has  obviously  decided  that 
we  are  not  fit  to  have  anything  to  do  with  his  grand 

friends.  No  doubt  he  is  well-advised "  he  looked 

bitterly  round  the  unkempt  room  — "  and  we  will  cer- 
tainly take  the  hint." 

Then  Peter  recovered  himself  and  said,  "  Oh  don't 
be  an  ass,  Hilary,"  and  laughed  dejectedly,  and  went 
up  to  finish  putting  Thomas  to  bed. 

In  the  carriage  that  rolled  through  the  rain  from 
Brook  Street  to  Park  Lane,  Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart 
was  saying,  "  This  is  the  last  time ;  the  very  last  time. 
Never  again  do  I  try  to  help  any  Margerison.  First  I 
had  to  listen  for  full  five  minutes  to  the  lies  of  that 
woman;  then  to  the  insufferable  remarks  of  that  cad, 
that  swindler,  Hilary  Margerison,  who  I  firmly  believe 
had  an  infectious  disease  which  I  have  no  doubt  caught  " 
(he  was  right;  he  had  caught  it).  '"Then  in  comes 
Peter  and  insults  me  to  my  face  and  tells  me  to  clear 
out  of  the  house.  By  all  means;  I  have  done  so,  and 
it  will  be  for  good.  What,  Lucy?  There,  don't  cry, 
child;  they  an't  worth  a  tear  between  the  lot  of  'em." 

But  Lucy  cried.  She,  like  Peter,  was  oddly  not  her- 
self to-day,  and  cried  and  cried. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    BREAKING-POINT 

THE  boarding-house  suddenly  ceased  to  be.  Its  long 
illness  ended  in  natural  death.  There  was  a  growing 
feeling  among  the  boarders  that  no  self-respecting  per- 
son could  remain  with  people  whose  financial  affairs 
were  in  the  precarious  condition  of  the  Margerisons' — 
people  who  couldn't  pay  the  butcher,  and  lived  on  ill- 
founded  expectations  of  subsidies.  As  two  years  ago 
the  Margerisons  had  been  thrown  roughly  out  of  the 
profession  of  artistic  experts,  so  now  the  doors  of  the 
boarding-house  world  were  shut  upon  them.  Boarders 
are  like  that;  intensely  respectable. 

All  the  loosed  dogs  of  ill-fortune  seemed  to  be  yelping 
at  the  Margerisons'  heels  at  once.  Hilary,  when  he 
recovered  from  his  influenza  and  went  out  to  look  for 
jobs,  couldn't  find  one.  Again  and  again  he  was  curtly 
refused  employment,  by  editors  and  others.  Every 
night  he  came  home  a  little  more  bitter  than  the  day 
before.  Peter  too,  while  he  lay  mending  of  his  break- 
ages, received  a  letter  from  the  place  of  business  he 
adorned  informing  him  that  it  would  not  trouble  him 
further.  He  had  never  been  much  use  to  it;  he  had 
been  taken  on  at  Leslie's  request  and  given  a  trial ;  but 
it  could  not  last  for  ever,  as  Peter  fair-mindedly  ad- 
mitted. 

"  Well,"  he  commented,  "  I  suppose  one  must  do 
something  else,  eventually.  But  I  shall  put  off  reflect- 
ing on  that  till  I  can  move  about  more  easily." 

Hilary  said,  "  We  are  being  hounded  out  of  London 
240 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  241 

as  we  were  hounded  out  of  Venice.  It  is  unbearable. 
What  remains  ? " 

"Nothing,  that  I  can  see  at  the  moment,"  said 
Peter,  laughing  weakly. 

"  Ireland,"  said  Peggy  suddenly.  "  Let's  go  there. 
Dublin's  worth  a  dozen  of  this  hideous  old  black  dirty 
place.  You  could  get  work  on  '  The  Nationalist/ 
Hilary,  I  do  believe,  for  the  sub-editorship's  just  been 
given  to  my  cousin  Larry  Callaghan.  Come  along  to 
the  poor  old  country,  and  we'll  try  our  luck  again." 

"  Dublin  I  believe  to  be  an  unspeakable  place  to  live 
in,"  said  Hilary,  but  mainly  from  habit.  "  Still,  I  pre- 
sume one  must  live  somewhere,  so  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  Peter.  "  Where  shall  you  and  Thomas 
live?" 

Peter  flushed  slightly.  He  had  supposed  that  he 
and  Thomas  were  also  to  live  in  the  unspeakable  Dub- 
lin. 

"  Oh,  we  haven't  quite  made  up  our  minds.  I  must 
consult  Thomas  about  it." 

"  But,"  broke  in  Peggy,  "  of  course  you're  coming 
with  us,  my  dear.  What  do  you  mean?  You're  not 
surely  going  to  desert  us  now,  Peter  ?  " 

Peter  glanced  at  Hilary.  Hilary  said,  pushing  his 
hair,  with  his  restless  gesture,  from  his  forehead, 
"  Really,  Peggy,  we  can't  drag  Peter  about  after  us 
all  our  lives;  it's  hardly  fair  on  him  to  involve  him 
in  all  our  disasters,  when  he  has  more  than  enough  of 
his  own." 

"  Indeed  and  he  has.  Peter's  mischancier  than  you 
are,  Hilary,  on  the  whole,  and  I  will  not  leave  him  and 
Tommy  to  get  lost  or  broken  by  themselves.  Don't  be 
so  silly,  Peter ;  of  course  you're  coming  with  us." 

"  I  think,"  said  Peter,  "  that  Thomas  and  I  will  per- 
haps stay  in  London.  You  see,  /  can't,  probably,  get 


242  THE  LEE  SHORE 

work  on  '  The  Nationalist,'  and  it's  doubtful  what  I 
could  do  in  Dublin.  I  suppose  I  can  get  work  of  a  sort 
in  London;  enough  to  provide  Thomas  with  milk, 
though  possibly  not  all  from  one  cow." 

"  I  daresay.  And  who'd  look  after  the  mite,  I'd  like 
to  know,  while  you're  earning  his  milk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  landlady,  I  should  think.  Everyone  likes 
Thomas ;  he's  remarkably  popular." 

Afterwards  Hilary  said  to  Peggy,  "  Eeally,  Peggy, 
I  see  no  reason  why  Peter  should  be  dragged  about  with 
us  in  the  future.  The  joint  menage  has  not,  in  the  past, 
been  such  a  success  that  we  need  want  to  perpetuate  it. 
In  fact,  though,  of  course,  it  is  pleasant  to  have  Peter 
in  the  house  .  .  ." 

"  Indeed  it  is,  the  darling,"  put  in  Peggy. 

"  One  can't  deny  that  disasters  have  come  upon  us 
extraordinarily  fast  since  he  came  to  live  with  us  in 
Venice  two  years  ago.  First  he  discovered  things  that 
annoyed  him  in  my  private  affairs,  which  was  ex- 
tremely disagreeable  for  all  of  us,  and  really  he  was 
rather  unnecessarily  officious  about  that ;  in  fact,  I  con- 
sider that  it  was  owing  largely  to  the  line  he  took  that 
things  reached  their  final  very  trying  denouement. 
Since  then  disaster  upon  disaster  has  come  upon  us; 
Peter's  unfortunate  marriage,  and  consequent  serious 
expenses,  including  the  child  now  left  upon  his  hands 
(really,  you  know,  that  was  an  exceedingly  stupid  step 
that  Peter  took;  I  tried  to  dissuade  him  at  the  time, 
but  of  course  it  was  no  use).  And  he  is  so  very  fre- 
quently ill ;  so  am  I,  you  will  say  " —  (Peggy  didn't, 
because  Hilary  wasn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ill  quite  so 
often  as  he  believed)  — "  but  two  crocks  in  a  house- 
hold are  twice  as  inconvenient  as  one.  And  now  there 
has  been  this  unpleasant  jar  with  the  Urquharts. 
Peter,  by  his  rudeness  to  them,  has  finally  severed  the 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  243 

connection,  and  we  can  hope  for  nothing  from  that 
quarter  in  future.  And  I  am  not  sure  that  I  choose 
to  have  living  with  me  a  much  younger  brother  who 
has  influential  friends  of  his  own  in  whom  he  insists 
that  we  shall  have  neither  part  nor  lot.  I  strongly  ob- 
ject to  the  way  Peter  spoke  to  us  on  that  occasion;  it 
was  extremely  offensive." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  such  a  goose,  Hilary.  The  boy  only 
lost  his  temper  for  a  moment,  and  I'm  sure  that  hap- 
pens seldom  enough.  And  as  to  the  rest  of  it,  I  don't 
like  the  way  you  speak  of  him,  as  if  he  was  the  cause 
of  our  mischances,  and  as  if  his  being  so  mischancey 
himself  wasn't  a  reason  why  we  should  all  stick  to- 
gether, and  him  with  that  scrap  of  a  child,  too ;  though 
I  will  say  Peter's  a  handier  creature  with  a  child  than 
anyone  would  think.  I  suppose  it's  the  practice  he's 
had  handling  other  costly  things  that  break  easy.  .  .  . 
Well,  have  it  your  own  way,  Hilary.  Only  mind,  if 
Peter  wants  to  come  with  us,  he  surely  shall.  I'm 
not  going  to  leave  him  behind  like  a  left  kitten.  And 
I'd  love  to  have  him,  for  he  makes  sunshine  in  the  house 
when  things  are  blackest." 

"  Lately  Peter  has  appeared  to  me  to  be  rather  de- 
pressed," said  Hilary,  and  Peggy  too  had  perceived  that 
this  was  so.  It  was  something  so  new  in  Peter  that  it 
called  for  notice. 

There  was  needed  no  further  dispute  between  Peggy 
and  Hilary,  for  Peter  said  that  he  and  Thomas  pre- 
ferred to  stay  in  London. 

"  I  can  probably  find  a  job  of  some  sort  to  keep  us. 
I  might  with  luck  get  a  place  as  shop-walker.  That 
always  looks  a  glorious  life.  You  merely  walk  about 
and  say,  '  Yes,  madam  ?  This  wray  for  hose,  madam.' 
Something  to  live  on  and  nothing  to  do,  as  the  poet 
says.  But  I  expect  they  are  difficult  places  to  get, 


244  THE  LEE  SHORE 

without  previous  experience.  Short  of  that,  I  could 
be  one  of  the  men  round  stations  that  open  people's 
cab  doors  and  take  the  luggage  out;  or  even  a  bus-con- 
ductor, who  knows?  Oh,  there  are  lots  of  openings. 
But  in  Dublin  I  feel  my  talents  might  be  lost.  .  .  . 
Thomas  and  I  will  move  into  more  modest  apartments, 
and  go  in  for  plain  living  and  high  thinking." 

"  You  poor  little  dears,"  said  Peggy,  and  kissed  both 
of  them.  "  Well,  it'll  be  plain  living  for  the  lot  of  us, 
that's  obvious,  and  lucky  too  to  get  that.  ...  I'd  love 
to  have  you  two  children  with  us,  but  .  .  ." 

But  Peter,  to  whom  other  people's  minds  were  as 
books  that  who  runs  may  read,  had  no  intention  of 
coming  with  them.  That  faculty  of  intuition  of 
Peter's  had  drawbacks  as  well  as  advantages.  He 
knew,  as  well  as  if  Hilary  had  said  so,  that  Hilary  con- 
sidered their  life  together  a  disastrous  series  of  mis- 
haps, largely  owing  to  Peter,  and  that  he  did  not  desire 
to  continue  it.  He  knew  precisely  what  was  Denis 
Urquhart's  point  of  view  and  state  of  feelings  towards 
himself  and  his  family,  and  how  unbridgeable  that  gulf 
was.  He  knew  why  Lucy  was  stopping  away,  and 
would  stop  away  (for  if  other  people's  thoughts  were 
to  him  as  pebbles  in  running  water,  hers  were  pebbles 
seen  white  and  lucid  in  a  still,  clear  pool).  And  he 
knew  very  well  that  he  relieved  Peggy's  kind  heart 
when  he  said  he  and  Thomas  would  stop  in  London; 
for  to  Peggy  anything  was  better  than  to  worry  her  poor 
old  Hilary  more  than  need  be. 

So,  before  March  was  out,  about  St.  Cuthbert's  day, 
in  fact,  Hilary  Margerison  and  his  family  left  England 
for  a  more  distressful  country,  to  seek  their  fortunes 
fresh,  and  Peter  and  his  family  sought  modest  apart- 
ments in  a  little  street  behind  St.  Austin's  Church, 
where  the  apartments  are  very  modest  indeed. 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  245 

"  Are  they  too  modest  for  von,  Thomas  ? "  Peter 
asked  dubiously.  "  And  do  you  too  much  hate  the 
Girl?" 

The  Girl  was  the  landlady's  daughter,  and  under- 
took for  a  small  consideration  to  look  after  Thomas 
while  Peter  was  out,  and  feed  him  at  suitable  inter- 
vals. Thomas  and  Peter  did  rather  hate  her,  for  she 
was  a  slatternly  girl,  matching  her  mother  and  her 
mother's  apartments,  and  didn't  always  take  her  curlers 
off  till  the  evening,  and  said  "  Boo  "  to  Thomas,  merely 
because  he  was  young  —  a  detestable  habit,  Peter  and 
Thomas  considered.  Peter  had  to  make  a  great  deal  of 
sensible  conversation  to  Thomas,  to  make  up. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Peter  apologised,  "  but,  you  see, 
Thomas,  it's  all  we  can  afford.  You  don't  earn  any- 
thing at  all,  and  I  only  earn  a  pound  a  week,  which  is 
barely  enough  to  keep  you  in  drink.  I  don't  deserve 
even  that,  for  I  don't  address  envelopes  well;  but  I 
suppose  they  know  it's  such  a  detestable  job  that  they 
haven't  the  face  to  give  me  less." 

Peter  was  addressing  envelopes  because  a  Robinson 
relative  had  given  him  the  job,  and  he  hadn't  the 
nerve  to  refuse  it.  He  couldn't  well  refuse  it,  because 
of  Thomas.  Uncompanioned  by  Thomas  he  would 
probably  have  chosen  instead  to  sweep  a  crossing  or 
play  a  barrel-organ,  or  stand  at  a  street  corner  with 
outstretched  hat  (though  this  last  would  only  have 
done  for  a  summer  engagement,  as  Peter  didn't  like 
the  winds  that  play  round  street  corners  in  winter). 
But  Thomas  was  very  much  there,  and  had  to  be  pro- 
vided for;  so  Peter  copied  letters  and  addressed  en- 
velopes and  earned  twenty  shillings  weekly,  and  out 
of  it  paid  for  Thomas's  drink  and  Thomas's  Girl  and 
his  own  food,  and  beds  and  a  sitting-room  and  fires 
and  laundry  for  both,  and  occasional  luxuries  in  the 


246  THE  LEE  SHORE 

way  of  wooden  animals  for  Thomas  to  play  with.  So 
they  were  not  extremely  poor;  they  were  respectably 
well-to-do.  For  Thomas's  sake,  Peter  supposed  it  was 
worth  while  not  to  be  extremely  poor,  even  though  it 
meant  addressing  envelopes  and  living  in  a  great  grey 
prison-house  of  a  city,  where  one  only  surmised  the 
first  early  pushings  of  the  spring  beyond  the  encom- 
passing gloom. 

Peter  used  to  tell  Thomas  about  that,  in  order  that 
he  might  know  something  of  the  joyous  world  beyond 
the  walls.  He  told  Thomas  in  March,  taking  time  by 
the  forelock,  about  the  early  violets  that  were  going 
some  time  to  open  blue  eyes  in  the  ditches  by  the  roads 
where  the  spring  winds  walk ;  about  the  blackthorn  that 
Would  suddenly  make  a  white  glory  of  the  woods; 
about  the  green,  sticky  budding  of  the  larches,  and  the 
keen  sweet  smell  of  them,  and  the  damp  fragrance 
of  the  roaming  wind  that  would  blow  over  river-flooded 
fields,  smelling  of  bonfires  and  wet  earth.  He  took 
him  through  the  seasons,  telling  him  of  the  blown  golden 
armies  of  the  daffodils  that  marched  out  for  Easter, 
and  the  fragrant  white  glory  of  the  may,  and  the  pale 
pink  stars  of  the  hedge-roses,  and  the  yellow  joy  of 
buttercup  fields  wherein  cows  stand  knee-deep  and 
munch,  in  order  to  give  Thomas  sweet  white  milk. 

"  Ugh,"  said  Thomas,  making  a  face,  and  Peter  an- 
swered, "  Yes,  I  know ;  sometimes  they  come  upon  an 
onion-flower  and  eat  that,  and  that's  not  nice,  of  course. 
But  mostly  it's  grass  and  buttercups  and  clover."  Then 
he  told  him  of  hot  July  roads,  where  the  soft  white  dust 
lies,  while  the  horses  and  the  cows  stand  up  to  their 
middles  in  cool  streams  beneath  the  willows  and  switch 
their  tails,  and  the  earth  dreams  through  the  year's  hot 
noon ;  and  of  August,  the  world's  welfare  and  the  earth's 
warming-pan,  and  how,  in  the  fayre  rivers,  swimming 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  247, 

is  a  sweet  exercise.  "  And  my  birthday  comes  then. 
Oh,  'tis  the  merry  time,  wherein  honest  neighbours 
make  good  cheer,  and  God  is  glorified  in  his  blessings 
on  the  earth.  Then  cometh  September,  Thomas  " — 
Peter  was  half  talking,  half  reading  out  of  a  book  he 
had  got  to  amuse  Thomas  — "  then  cometh  September, 
and  then  he  (that's  you,  Thomas)  doth  freshly  beginne 
to  garnish  his  house  and  make  provision  of  needfull 
things  for  to  live  in  winter,  which  draweth  very  nere. 
.  .  .  There  are  a  few  nice  things  in  September;  ripe 
plums  and  pears  and  nuts  —  (no,  nuts  aren't  nice,  be- 
cause our  teeth  aren't  good,  are  they;  at  least  mine 
aren't,  and  you've  only  got  one  and  a  half)  ;  but  any- 
how, plums,  and  a  certain  amount  of  yellow  sunshine, 
and  Thomas's  birthday.  But  on  the  whole  it's  too  near 
the  end  of  things ;  and  in  brief e,  I  thus  conclude  of  it," 
I  hold  it  the  Winter's  forewarning  and  the  Summer's 
farewell.  Adieu.  .  .  .  We  won't  pursue  the  year  fur- 
ther, my  dear;  the  rest  is  silence  and  impenetrable 
gloom,  anyhow  in  this  corner  of  the  world,  and  doesn't 
bear  thinking  about." 

Thus  did  Peter  talk  to  Thomas  of  an  evening,  when 
they  sat  together  after  tea  over  "the  fire. 

Sometimes  he  told  him  news  of  the  world  of  men. 
One  evening  he  said  to  him,  very  gently  and  pitifully, 
"  Dear  old  man,  your  mother's  dead.  For  her  sake, 
one's  glad,  I  suppose.  You  and  I  must  try  to  look  at 
it  from  her  point  of  view.  She's  escaped  from  a  poor 
business.  Some  day  I'll  read  you  the  letter  she  wrote 
to  you  and  me  as  she  lay  dying ;  but  not  yet,  for  I  never 
read  you  sad  things,  do  I  ?  But  some  day  you  may 
be  glad  to  know  that  she  had  thoughts  for  you  at  the 
last.  She  was  sorry  she  left  us,  Thomas;  horribly, 
dreadfully  sorry.  ...  I  wish  she  hadn't  been.  I  wish 
she  could  have  gone  on  being  happy  till  the  end.  It 


248  THE  LEE  SHORE 

was  my  fault  that  she  did  it,  and  it  didn't  even  make 
her  happy.  And  I  suppose  it  killed  her  at  the  last;  or 
would  she  anyhow  have  escaped  that  way  before  long  ? 
But  I  took  more  care  of  her  than  he  did.  .  .  .  And  now 
she'll  never  come  back  to  us.  I've  thought  sometimes, 
Thomas,  that  perhaps  she  would;  that  perhaps  she 
would  get  tired  of  him,  so  tired  that  she  would  leave 
him  and  come  back  to  us,  and  then  you'd  have  had  a 
mother  to  do  for  you  instead  of  only  me  and  the  Girl. 
Poor  little  Thomas;  you'll  never  have  a  mother  now. 
I'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry  about  it.  Sorry  for  you,  and 
sorry  for  her,  and  sorry  for  all  of  us.  It's  a  pitiful 
world,  Thomas,  it  seems.  I  wonder  how  you're  going 
to  get  through  it." 

Never  before  had  he  talked  to  Thomas  like  that. 
He  had  been  used  to  speak  to  him  of  new-burnisht  joys 
and  a  world  of  treasure.  But  of  late  Peter  had  been 
conscious  of  increasing  effort  in  being  cheerful  before 
Thomas.  It  was  as  if  the  little  too  much  that  breaks 
had  been  laid  upon  him  and  under  it  he  was  breaking. 
For  the  first  time  he  was  seeing  the  world  not  as  a 
glorious  treasure-place  full  of  glad  things  for  touch  and 
sight  and  hearing,  full  of  delightful  people  and  absurd 
jokes,  but  as  a  grey  and  lonely  sea  through  which  one 
drifted  rudderless  towards  a  lee  shore.  He  supposed 
that  there  was,  somewhere,  a  lee  shore;  a  place  where 
the  winds,  having  blown  their  uttermost,  ceased  to  blow, 
and  where  wrecked  things  were  cast  up  at  last  broken 
beyond  all  mending  and  beyond  all  struggling,  to  find 
the  peace  of  the  utterly  lost.  He  had  not  got  there  yet ; 
he  and  his  broken  boat  were  struggling  in  the  grey  cold 
waters,  which  had  swept  all  his  cargo  from  him,  bale 
by  bale.  From  him  that  hath  not  shall  indeed  be  taken 
away  even  that  which  he  hath. 

It  was  Thomas  who  caused  Peter  to  think  of  these 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  249 

things  newly;  Thomas,  who  was  starting  life  with  so 
poor  a  heritage.  For  Thomas,  so  like  himself,  Peter 
foresaw  the  same  progressive  wreckage.  Thomas  too, 
having  already  lost  a  mother,  would  lose  later  all  he 
loved ;  he  would  give  to  some  friend  all  he  was  and  had, 
and  the  friend  would  drop  him  in  the  mud  and  leave 
him  there,  and  the  cold  bitterness  as  of  death  would 
go  over  Thomas's  head.  He  would,  perhaps,  love  a 
woman  too,  and  the  woman  would  leave  him  quite  alone, 
not  coming  near  him  in  his  desolation,  because  he  loved 
her.  He  would  also  lose  his  honour,  his  profession, 
and  the  beautiful  things  he  loved  to  handle  and  play 
with.  "  And  then,  when  you've  lost  everything,  and 
perhaps  been  involved  in  some  of  my  disgraces,  you'll 
think  that  at  least  you  and  I  can  stick  together  and  go 
under  together  and  help  each  other  a  little.  And  I 
daresay  you'll  find  that  I  shall  say,  '  No,  I'm  going  off 
to  Ireland,  or  Italy,  or  somewhere;  I've  had  enough  of 
you,  and  you  can  jolly  well  sink  or  swim  by  yourself  9 
—  so  you  see  you  won't  have  even  me  to  live  for  in  the 
end,  just  when  you  want  me  most.  That's  the  sort  of 
thing  that  happens.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  chance  have  you  ? " 
said  Peter  very  bitterly,  huddled,  elbows  on  knees,  over 
the  chilly  fire,  while  Thomas  slumbered  in  a  shawl  on 
the  rug. 

Bitterness  was  so  strange  in  Peter,  so  odd  and  new, 
that  Thomas  was  disturbed  by  it,  and  woke  and  wailed, 
as  if  his  world  was  tumbling  about  his  ears. 

Peter  too  felt  it  strange  and  new,  and  laughed  a  little 
at  it  and  himself  as  he  comforted  Thomas.  But  his 
very  laughter  was  new  and  very  dreary.  He  picked 
Thomas  up  in  his  arms  and  held  him  close,  a  warm 
little  whimpering  bundle.  Then  it  was  as  if  the  touch 
of  the  small  live  thing  that  was  his  own  and  had  no  one 
in  the  world  but  him  to  fend  for  it  woke  in  him  a  new 


250  THE  LEE  SHORE 

instinct.  There  sprang  up  in  him  swiftly,  new-born 
out  of  the  travail  of  great  bitterness,  a  sharp  anger 
against  life,  against  fate,  against  the  whole  universe 
of  nature  and  man.  To  lose  and  lose  and  lose  —  how 
that  goes  on  and  on  through  a  lifetime !  But  at  last  it 
seems  that  the  limit  is  reached,  something  snaps  and 
breaks,  and  the  loser  rises  up,  philosopher  no  more,  to 
take  and  grasp  and  seize.  The  lust  to  possess,  to  wring 
something  for  Thomas  and  himself  out  of  life  that  had 
torn  from  them  so  much  —  it  sprang  upon  him  like  a 
wild  beast,  and  fastened  deep  fangs  into  his  soul  and 
will. 

Outside,  a  small  April  wind  stirred  the  air  of  the 
encompassing  city,  a  faint  breath  from  a  better  world, 
seeming  to  speak  of  life  and  hope  and  new  beginnings. 

Peter,  laying  Thomas  gently  on  a  chair,  went  to 
the  open  window  and  leant  out,  looking  into  the  veil 
of  the  unhappy  streets  that  hid  an  exquisite  world. 
Exquisiteness  was  surely  there,  as  always.  Mightn't 
he  too,  he  and  Thomas,  snatch  some  of  it  for  them- 
selves ?  The  old  inborn  lust  for  things  concrete,  lovely 
things  to  handle  and  hold,  caught  Peter  by  the  throat. 
In  that  hour  he  could  have  walked  without  a  scruple 
into  an  empty  house  or  shop  and  carried  away  what  he 
could  of  its  beauties,  and  brought  them  home  to 
Thomas,  saying,  "  Anyhow,  here's  something  for  us  to 
go  on  with."  He  was  in  the  mood  in  which  some  people 
take  to  drink,  only  Peter  didn't  like  any  drinks  except 
non-alcoholic  ones;  or  to  reckless  gambling,  only  he 
didn't  find  gambling  amusing;  or  to  some  adventure  of 
love,  only  to  Peter  love  meant  one  thing  only,  and  that 
was  beyond  his  reach. 

But  when  he  had  put  Thomas  to  bed,  in  his  little 
common  cheap  nightshirt,  he  went  out  into  the  streets 
with  his  weekly  earnings  in  his  pockets  and  spent  them. 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  251 

He  spent  every  penny  he  had.  First  he  went  to  a 
florist's  and  bought  daffodils,  in  great  golden  sheaves. 
Then  he  went  to  a  toyshop  and  got  a  splendid  family 
of  fluffy  beasts,  and  a  musical  box,  and  a  Noah's  Ark, 
and  a  flute.  He  had  spent  all  his  money  by  then,  so 
he  pawned  his  watch  and  signet  ring  and  bought 
Thomas  some  pretty  cambric  clothes  and  a  rocking 
cradle.  He  had  nothing  else  much  to  pawn.  But  he 
badly  wanted  some  Japanese  paintings  to  put  in  the 
place  of  the  pictures  that  at  present  adorned  the  sitting- 
room.  Thomas  and  he  must  have  something  nice  and 
gay  to  look  at,  instead  of  the  Royal  Family  and  the 
Monarch  of  the  Glen  and  "  Grace  Sufficient  "  worked 
in  crewels.  So  he  went  into  a  shop  in  Holborn  and 
chose  some  paintings,  and  ordered  them  to  be  sent  up, 
and  said,  "  Please  enter  them  to  me,"  so  firmly  that 
they  did.  Having  done  that  once,  he  repeated  it  at 
several  other  shops,  and  sometimes  they  obeyed  him  and 
sometimes  said  that  goods  could  not  be  sent  up  without 
pre-payment.  Pre-payment  (or,  indeed,  as  far  as  Peter 
could  look  forward,  post-payment)  being  out  of  the 
question,  those  goods  had  to  be  left  where  they  were. 
But  Peter,  though  handicapped  by  shabby  attire,  had 
an  engaging  way  with  him,  and  most  shopmen  are  trust- 
ful and  obliging.  If  they  lost  by  the  transaction, 
thought  Peter  recklessly,  it  was  their  turn  to  lose,  not 
his.  It  was  his  turn  to  acquire,  and  he  had  every  in- 
tention of  doing  so.  He  had  a  glorious  evening,  till  the 
shops  shut.  Then  he  went  home,  and  found  that  the 
daffodils  had  oome,  and  he  filled  the  room  with  them, 
converting  its  dingy  ugliness  into  a  shining  glory. 
Then  he  took  down  all  the  horrible  pictures  and  texts 
and  stacked  them  behind  the  sofa,  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  the  Japanese  paintings.  He  thought  Thomas  would 
like  the  paintings  as  much  as  he  did  himself.  Their 


252  THE  LEE  SHORE 

room  in  future  should  be  a  bright  and  pleasant  place, 
fit  for  human  beings  to  live  in.  He  cleared  the  chim- 
neypiece  of  its  horrid,  tinkling  ornaments  to  leave  space 
for  his  brown  pottery  jars  full  of  daffodils.  He  put 
the  ornaments  with  the  pictures  behind  the  sofa,  and 
when  the  Girl  came  in  with  his  supper  requested  her  at 
her  leisure  to  remove  them. 

"  I  have  been  getting  some  new  pictures,  you  see," 
he  told  her,  and  was  annoyed  at  the  way  her  round  eyes 
widened.  Why  shouldn't  he  get  as  many  new  pictures 
as  he  chose,  without  being  gaped  at  ? 

There  was  more  gaping  next  day,  when  his  purchases 
were  sent  up.  He-  had  warned  his  landlady  and  the 
Girl  beforehand,  that  they  might  not  tell  the  messengers 
it  must  be  a  mistake  and  send  them  away,  on  what 
would,  no  doubt  be  their  stupid  and  impertinent  im- 
pulse. So  they  gaped  and  took  them  in,  and  Peter 
hurried  back  early  from  his  work  and  fetched  Thomas 
in  to  watch  him  open  parcels  and  admire  the  contents. 
He  spread  bright  rugs  over  the  horsehair  sofa  and 
chairs,  and  flung  big  soft  cushions  about  them,  and  said 
"  Hurrah !  The  first  time  I've  been  really  comfortable 
since  I  left  Cambridge."  Then  he  bathed  Thomas  and 
put  him  into  a  new  little  soft  cambric  nightshirt,  and 
put  him  to  bed  in  the  rocking-cradle.  Thomas  was  de- 
lighted with  it  all.  He  had  no  doubt  inherited  Peter's 
love  of  all  things  bright  and  beautiful,  and  now  for  the 
first  time  he  had  them. 

"  That's  more  the  style,  isn't  it,  old  man  ? "  said 
Peter,  stretching  himself  among  cushions  in  the  arm- 
chair. Thomas  agreed  that  it  was,  and  the  two  epi- 
cureans took  their  ease  among  the  pleasures  of  the  senses. 

"  What  next  ?  "  Peter  wondered.  "  We  must  have 
more  things  still,  mustn't  we  ?  Nice  things  of  all  sorts ; 
not  only  the  ones  we  can  buy.  But  we  must  begin  with 


THE  BREAKING-POINT  253 

the  ones  we  can  buy.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Baker  will  have  to  wait 
for  her  rent  for  a  time ;  I  can't  spare  any  for  that.  .  .  . 
I've  a  good  mind,  Thomas,  to  take  a  whole  holiday;  a 
long  one.  Chuck  the  envelopes  and  take  to  living  like 
a  lord,  on  tick.  It's  wonderful  how  far  tick  will  carry 
you,  if  you  try.  Muffins  for  tea,  you  see,  Thomas,  only 
you  can't  have  any.  Well,  what's  the  matter?  Why 
shouldn't  I  have  muffins  for  tea  ?  You've  got  milk, 
haven't  you,  and  I'm  not  getting  a  share  in  that.  Don't 
be  grudging.  .  .  .  But  we  want  more  than  muffins  and 
milk,  Thomas;  and  more  than  cushions  and  daffodils 
and  nice  pictures.  We  want  a  good  time.  We  want 
friends;  we  want  someone  to  love  us;  we  want  a 
holiday.  If  Leslie  was  in  England  I'd  go  and  say, 
'  Thomas  and  I  are  coming  to  stay  with  you  for  a  time, 
and  you've  just  got  to  fork  out  supplies  for  us  and  let 
us  spend  them.'  Leslie  would  do  it,  too.  But  people 
are  always  away  when  one  wants  them  most.  .  .  .  Oh, 
hang  it  all,  Thomas,  I'm  not  going  on  with  those  horri- 
ble envelopes ;  I'm  not.  I'm  going  to  do  things  I  like. 
Why  shouldn't  I  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  Lots  of  people 
do ;  all  the  best  people.  I  shall  give  notice  to-morrow. 
No,  I  shan't ;  I  shall  just  not  turn  up,  then  I  shan't  be 
bothered  with  questions.  .  .  .  And  we're  not  going  on 
with  the  friends  we  have  here  —  Mrs.  Baker,  and  the 
Girl,  and  the  other  envelope-gummers.  No;  we're 
going  to  insist  on  having  nice  amusing  friends  to  play 
with ;  friends  who  are  nicer  than  we  are.  The  Girl 
isn't  so  nice,  not  by  a  long  way.  Rodney  is;  but  he's 
too  busy  to  be  bothered  with  us  much.  We  want 
friends  of  leisure.  We  will  have  them ;  we  will.  Why 
should  we  be  chucked  out  and  left  outside  people's 
doors,  just  because  they're  tired  of  us  ?  The  thing  that 
matters  is  that  we're  not  tired  of  them.  .  .  .  To-mor- 
row, Thomas,  you  and  I  are  going  down  to  a  place 


254  THE  LEE  SHORE 

called  Astleys,  in  Berkshire,  to  visit  some  friends  of 
ours.  If  they  don't  want  us,  they  can  just  lump  us; 
good  for  them.  Why  should  they  always  have  only  the 
things  they  want  ?  Be  ready  at  nine,  old  man,  and 
we'll  catch  a  train  as  soon  after  that  as  may  be." 

Thomas  laughed,  thinking  it  a  splendid  plan.  lie 
had  never  seen  Astleys  in  Berkshire,  but  he  knew  it  to 
be  a  good  place,  from  Peter's  voice  when  he  mentioned  it. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  excite  you  so  late  at  night," 
said  Peter,  "  so  don't  think  any  more  about  it,  but 
go  to  sleep,  if  you've  finished  that  milk.  Does  your 
head  ache?  Mine  does.  That's  the  worst  of  weak 
heads;  they  always  ache  just  when  things  are  getting 
interesting.  But  I  don't  care;  we're  going  to  have 
things  —  things  to  like ;  we're  going  to  get  hold  of  them 
somehow,  if  we  die  in  gaol  for  it;  and  that's  worth  a 
headache  or  two.  Someone  says  something  about  hav- 
ing nothing  and  yet  possessing  all  things;  it's  one  of 
the  things  with  no  meaning  that  people  do  say,  and  that 
make  me  so  angry.  It  ought  to  be  having  nothing  and 
then  possessing  all  things;  because  that's  the  way  it's 
going  to  be  with  us.  Good  night,  Thomas ;  you  may  go 
to  sleep  now." 

Thomas  did  so ;  and  Peter  lay  on  the  sofa  and  gazed 
at  the  daffodils  in  the  brown  jars  that  filled  the  room 
with  light. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   NEW   LIFE 

PETES,  with  Thomas  over  his  shoulder,  stepped  out 
of  the  little  station  into  a  radiant  April  world.  Be- 
tween green,  budding  hedges,  between  ditches  where 
blue  violets  and  joyous-eyed  primroses  peered  up  out 
of  wet  grass,  a  brown  road  ran,  gleaming  with  puddles 
that  glinted  up  at  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  clouds 
that  raced  before  a  merry  wind. 

Peter  said,  "  Do  you  like  it,  old  man  ?  Do  you  ?  " 
but  Thomas's  heart  was  too  full  for  speech.  He  was 
seeing  the  radiant  wonderland  he  had  heard  of;  it 
crowded  upon  him,  a  vivid,  many-splendoured  thing, 
and  took  his  breath  away.  There  were  golden  duck- 
lings by  the  grassy  roadside,  and  lambs  crying  to  him 
from  the  fields,  and  cows,  eating  (one  hoped)  sweet 
grass,  with  their  little  calves  beside  them.  A  glorious 
scene.  The  gay  wind  caught  Peter  by  the  throat  and 
brought  sudden  tears  to  his  eyes,  so  long  used  to  looking 
on  grey  streets. 

He  climbed  over  a  stile  in  the  hedge  and  took  a  field 
path  that  ran  up  to  a  wood  —  the  wood  way,  as  he 
remembered,  to  Astleys.  Peter  had  stayed  at  Astleys 
more  than  once  in  old  days,  with  Denis.  He  remem- 
bered the  keen,  damp  fragrance  of  the  wood  in  April; 
the  smooth  stems  of  the  beeches,  standing  up  out  of  the 
mossy  ground,  and  the  way  the  primroses  glimmered, 
moon-like,  among  the  tangled  ground-ivy ;  and  the  way 
the  birds  made  every  budding  bough  rock  with  their 

255 


256  THE  LEE  SHORE 

clamorous  delight.  It  was  a  happy  wood,  full  of  small 
creatures  and  eager  happenings  and  adventurous  quests ; 
a  fit  road  to  take  questers  after  happiness  to  their  goal. 
In  itself  it  seemed  almost  the  goal  already,  so  alive  was 
it  and  full  of  joy.  Was  there  need  to  travel  further?' 
Very  vividly  the  impression  was  borne  in  on  Peter  (pos- 
sibly on  Thomas  too)  that  there  was  no  need ;  that  here, 
perhaps  round  the  next  twist  of  the  little  brown  path, 
was  not  the  way  but  the  achievement. 

And,  rounding  the  next  bend,  they  knew  it  to  be 
so;  for  above  the  path,  sitting  at  a  beech-tree's  foot 
among  creeping  ivy,  with  head  thrown  back  against  the 
smooth  grey  stem,  and  gathered  primroses  in  either 
hand,  was  Lucy. 

Looking  round  at  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  path,  she 
saw  them,  and  smiled  a  little,  not  as  if  surprised,  nor 
as  if  she  had  to  change  the  direction  of  her  thought, 
but  taking  them  into  her  vision  of  the  spring  woods  as 
if  they  were  natural  dwellers  in  it. 

Peter  stood  still  on  the  path  and  looked  up  at  her 
and  smiled  too.  He  said,  "  Oh,  Lucy,  Thomas  and  I 
have  come." 

She  bent  down  towards  them,  and  reached  out  her 
hands,  dropping  the  primroses,  for  Thomas.  Peter 
gave  her  Thomas,  and  she  laid  him  on  her  lap,  cradled 
on  her  two  arms,  and  smiled,  still  silently. 

Peter  sat  down  on  the  sloping  ground  just  below  her, 
his  back  against  another  tree. 

"  We've  come  to  see  you  and  Denis.  You  won't 
come  to  see  us,  so  we  had  to  take  it  into  our  own  hands. 
We  decided,  Thomas  and  I,  two  days  ago,  that  we 
weren't  going  on  any  longer  in  this  absurd  way.  We're 
going  to  have  a  good  time.  So  we  went  out  and  got 
things  —  lots  of  lovely  things.  And  I've  chucked  my 
horrible  work.  And  we've  come  to  see  you.  Will 


THE  NEW  LIFE  257 

Denis  mind  ?  I  can't  help  it  if  he  does ;  we've  got  to 
do  it." 

Lucy  nodded,  understanding.  "  I  know.  In  think- 
ing about  you  lately,  I've  known  it  was  coming  to  this, 
rather  soon.  I  didn't  quite  know  when.  But  I  knew 
you  must  have  a  good  time." 

After  a  little  while  she  went  on,  and  her  clear  voice 
fell  strange  and  tranquil  on  the  soft  wood  silence : 

"  What  I  didn't  quite  know  was  whether  you  would 
come  and  take  it  —  the  good  time — 'Or  whether  I 
should  have  to  come  and  bring  it  to  you.  I  was  going 
to  have  come,  you  know.  I  had  quite  settled  that. 
It's  taken  me  a  long  time  to  know  that  I  must:  but 
I  do  know  it  now." 

"  You  didn't  come,"  said  Peter  suddenly,  and  his 
hands  clenched  sharply  over  the  ivy  trails  and  tore 
them  out  of  the  earth,  and  his  face  whitened  to  the 
lips.  "  All  this  time  .  .  .  you  didn't  come  .  .  .  you 
kept  away.  .  .  ."  The  memory  of  that  black  empti- 
ness shook  him.  He  hadn't  realised  till  it  was  nearly 
over  quite  how  bad  it  had  been,  that  emptiness. 

The  two  pale  faces,  so  like,  were  quivering  with  the 
same  pain,  the  same  keen  recognition  of  it. 

"  ISTo,"  Lucy  whispered.  "  I  didn't  come  ...  I 
kept  away." 

Peter  said,  steadying  his  voice,  "  But  now  you  will. 
Now  I  may  come  to  you.  Oh,  I  know  why  you  kept 
away.  You  thought  it  would  be  less  hard  for  me  if 
I  didn't  see  you.  But  don't  again.  It  isn't  less  hard. 
It's  —  it's  impossible.  First  Denis,  then  you.  I  can't 
bear  it.  I  only  want  to  see  you  sometimes ;  just  to  feel 
you're  there.  I  won't  be  grasping,  Lucy." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy  calmly,  "  you  will.  You're  going 
to  be  grasping  in  future.  You're  going  to  take  and 
have.  .  .  .  Peter,  my  dear,  haven't  you  reached  the 


258  THE  LEE  SHORE 

place  I've  reached  yet?  Don't  you  know  that  between 
you  and  me  it's  got  to  be  all  or  nothing?  I've  learnt 
that  now.  So  I  tried  nothing.  But  that  won't  do. 
So  now  it's  going  to  be  all.  .  .  .  I'm  coming  to  Thomas 
and  you.  We  three  together  will  find  nice  things  for 
one  another." 

Peter's  forehead  was  on  his  drawn-up  knees.  He 
felt  her  hand  touch  his  head,  and  shivered  a  little. 

"  Denis,"  he  whispered. 

She  answered,  "  Denis  has  everything.  Denis  won't 
miss  me  among  so  much.  Denis  is  the  luckiest,  the 
most  prosperous,  the  most  succeeding  person  I  know. 
Peter,  let  me  try  and  tell  you  about  Denis  and  me." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  leaning  her  head  back 
against  the  beech-tree  and  looking  up  wide-eyed  at  the 
singing  roof  overhead. 

-  "  You  know  how  it  was,  I  expect,"  she  said,  with 
the  confidence  they  always  had  in  each  other's  knowl- 
edge, that  saved  so  many  words.  "  How  Denis  came 
among  us,  among  you  and  me  and  father  and  Felicity 
and  our  unprosperous,  dingy  friends,  and  how  he  was 
all  bright  and  shining  and  beautiful,  and  I  loved  him, 
partly  because  he  was  so  bright  and  beautiful,  and  a 
great  deal  because  you  did,  and  you  and  I  have  always 
loved  the  same  things.  And  so  I  married  him;  and 
at  the  time,  and  oh,  for  ever  so  long,  I  didn't  under- 
stand how  it  was;  how  it  was  all  wrong,  and  how  he 
and  I  didn't  really  belong  to  each  other  a  bit,  because 
he's  in  one  lot  of  people,  and  I'm  in  another.  He's  in 
the  top  lot,  that  gets  things,  and  I'm  in  the  under  lot, 
with  you  and  father  and  all  the  poorer  people  who  don't 
get  things,  and  have  to  find  life  nice  in  spite  of  it.  I'd 
deserted  really ;  and  father  and  Felicity  knew  I  had ; 
only  I  didn't  know,  or  I'd  never  have  done  it.  I  only 
got  to  understand  gradjully  "  (Lucy's  long  words  were 


THE  NEW  LIFE  259 

apt  to  be  a  blur,  like  a  child's),  "when  I  saw  what  a 
lot  of  good  things  Denis  and  his  friends  had,  and  how 
I  had  to  have  them  too,  'cause  I  couldn't  get  away  from 
them ;  and  oh,  Peter,  I've  felt  smothered  beneath  them ! 
They're  so  heavy  and  so  rich,  and  shut  people  out 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  that  hasn't  got  them,  so  that 
they  can't  hear  or  see  each  other.  It's  like  living  in 
a  palace  in  the  middle  of  dreadful  slums,  and  never 
caring.  Because  you  can't  care,  however  much  you  try, 
in  the  palace,  the  same  as  you  can  if  you're  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  poorness  and  the  emptiness.  Wasn't 
it  Christ  who  said  how  hardly  rich  men  shall  enter  into  • 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  ?  And  it's  harder  still  for  them 
to  enter  into  the  other  kingdoms,  which  aren't  heaven 
at  all.  It's  hard  for  them  to  step  out  from  where  they 
are  and  enter  anywhere  else.  Peter,  can  anyone  ever 
leave  their  world  and  go  into  another.  I  have  failed, 
you  see.  Denis  would  never  even  begin  to  try;  he 
wouldn't  see  any  object.  I  don't  believe  it  can  be  done. 
Except  perhaps  by  very  great  people.  And  we're  not 
that.  People  like  you  and  me  and  Denis  belong  where 
we're  born  and  brought  up.  Even  for  the  ones  who 
try,  to  change,  it's  hard.  And  most  of  us  don't  try  at 
all,  or  care  .  .  .  Denis  hardly  cares,  really.  He's  gen- 
erous with  money;  he  lets  me  give  away  as  much  as  I 
like;  but  he  doesn't  care  himself.  Unhappiness  and 
bad  luck  and  disgrace  don't  touch  him ;  he  doesn't  want 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  them ;  he  doesn't  like  them. 
Even  his  friends,  the  people  he  likes,  he  gets  tired  of 
directly  they  begin  to  go  under.  You  know  that.  And 
it's  dreadful,  Peter.  I  hate  it,  being  comfortable  up 
there  and  not  seeing  and  not  hearing  and  not  caring. 
Seems  to  me  we  just  live  to  have  a  good  time.  Well, 
of  course,  people  ought  to  do  that,  it's  the  thing  to  live 
for,  and  I  usen't  to  mind  before  I  was  rich,  and  father 


260  THE  LEE  SHORE 

and  Felicity  and  you  and  I  had  a  good  time  together. 
But  when  you're  rich  and  among  rich  people,  and  have 
a  good  time  not  because  you  make  it  for  yourself  out 
of  all  the  common  things  that  everyone  shares  —  the 
sunshine  and  the  river  and  the  nice  things  in  the  streets 
—  but  have  a  special  corner  of  good  things  marked  off 
for  you,  then  it  gets  dreadful.  'Tisn't  that  one  thinks 
one  ought  to  be  doing  more  for  other  people;  I  don't 
think  I've  that  sort  of  conscience  much;  only  that  I 
don't  belong.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  all  the  down- 
below  people,  the  disreputable,  unlucky  people,  who  fail 
and  don't  get  things,  and  I  know  that's  where  I  really 
belong.  It's  like  being  born  in  one  family  and  going 
and  living  in  another.  You  never  fit  in  really;  your 
proper  family  is  calling  out  to  you  all  the  time.  Oh, 
not  only  because  they  aren't  rich  and  lucky,  but  because 
they  really  suit  you  best,  in  little  ways  as  well  as  big 
ways.  You  understand  them,  and  they  understand 
you.  All  the  butlers  and  footmen  and  lady's-maids 
frighten  me  so ;  I  don't  like  telling  them  to  do  things ; 
they're  so  —  so  solemn  and  respectable.  And  I  don't 
like  creatures  to  be  killed,  and  I  don't  like  eating  them 
afterwards.  But  Denis  and  his  friends  and  the  serv- 
ants and  everyone  thinks  it's  idiotic  to  be  a  vegetarian. 
Denis  says  vegetarians  are  nearly  all  cranks  and  bound- 
ers, and  long-haired  men  or  short-haired  women.  Well, 
I  can't  help  it ;  I  s'pose  that  shows  where  I  really  and 
truly  belong,  though  I  don't  like  short-haired  women ; 
it's  so  ugly,  and  they  talk  so  loud  very  often.  And 
there  it  is  again ;  I  dislike  short  hair  'cause  of  that,  but 
Denis  dislikes  it  'cause  it  isn't  done.  That's  so  often 
his  reason ;  and  he  means  not  done  by  his  partic'lar  lot 
of  top-room  people.  ...  So  you  see,  Peter,  I  don't 
belong  there,  do  I  ?  I  don't  belong  any  more  than  you 
do." 


THE  NEW  LIFE  261 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "  I  never  supposed  you  did, 
of  course." 

"  Well,"  she  said  next,  "  what  you're  thinking  now 
is  that  Denis  wants  me.  He  doesn't  —  not  much. 
He's  not  awf ' ly  fond  of  me,  Peter ;  I  think  he's  rather 
tired  of  me,  'cause  I  often  want  to  do  tiresome  things, 
that  aren't  done.  I  think  he  knows  I  don't  belong. 
He's  very  kind  and  pleasant  always;  but  he'd  be  as 
happy  without  me,  and  much  happier  with  another  wife 
who  fitted  in  more.  He  only  took  me  as  a  sort  of 
luxury;  he  didn't  really  need  me.  And  you  do;  you 
and  Thomas.  You  want  me  much  more  than  he  ever 
did,  or  ever  could.  You  want  me  so  much  that  even 
if  Denis  did  want  me  a  great  deal,  I  should  come  to 
you,  because  you  want  me  more,  and  because  all  his 
life  he's  had  the  things  he  wanted,  and  now  it's  your 
turn.  'Tisn't  fair.  Why  shouldn't  you  have  things 
too  —  you  and  Thomas  ?  Thomas  and  you  and  I  can 
be  happy  together  with  no  money  and  nothing  else 
much ;  we  can  make  our  own  good  time  as  we  go  along, 
if  we  have  each  other.  Oh,  Peter,  let's !  " 

She  bent  down  to  him,  reaching  out  her  hands,  and 
Thomas  smiled  on  her  lap.  So  for  a  moment  the  three 
stayed,  and  the  woods  were  hushed  round  them,  wait- 
ing. Then  in  the  green  roof  above  a  riot  of  shrill, 
sweet  triumph  broke  the  hush,  and  Peter  leaped  to  his 
feet  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  Lucy,  let's.  Why  not?  I  told  Thomas  the 
day  before  yesterday  that  we  were  going  to  have  a 
good  time  now.  Well,  then,  let's  have  it.  Who's  to 
prevent  it?  It's  our  turn;  it's  our  turn.  We'll  begin 
from  now  and  take  things  and  keep  them.  .  .  .  Oh, 
d'you  mean  it,  Lucy?  D'you  mean  you'll  come  and 
play  with  us,  for  ever  and  ever  ?  " 

"  'Course  I  will,"  she  said,  simply,  like  a  child. 


262  THE  LEE  SHORE 

He  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her  and  leant  on  his  hands 
and  peered  into  Thomas's  face. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Thomas  ?  She's  coming ;  she's  com- 
ing to  us,  for  always.  You  wanted  her,  didn't  you? 
You  wanted  her  nearly  as  much  as  I  did,  only  you 
didn't  know  it  so  well.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lucy,  oh,  Lucy,  oh, 
Lucy  .  .  .  I've  wanted  you  so  .  .  ." 

"  I've  wanted  you  too,"  she  said.  "  I  haven't  talked 
about  that  part  of  it,  'cause  it's  so  obvious,  and  I  knew 
you  knew.  All  the  time,  even  when  I  thought  I  cared 
for  Denis,  I  was  only  half  a  person  without  you.  Of 
course,  I  always  knew  that,  without  thinking  much 
about  it,  from  the  time  we  were  babies.  Only  I  didn't 
know  it  meant  this;  I  thought  it  was  more  like  being 
brother  and  sister,  and  that  we  could  both  be  happy  just 
seeing  each  other  sometimes.  It's  only  rather  lately 
that  I've  known  it  had  to  be  everything.  There's  noth- 
ing at  all  to  say  about  the  way  we  care,  Peter,  because 
it's  such  an  old  stale  thing;  it's  always  been,  and  I 
s'pose  it  always  will  be.  'Tisn't  a  new,  surprising, 
sudden  thing,  like  my  falling  in  love  with  Denis.  It's 
so  deep,  it's  got  root  right  down  at  the  bottom,  before 
we  can  either  of  us  remember.  It's  like  this  ivy  that's 
all  over  the  ground,  and  out  of  which  all  the  little 
flowers  and  things  grow.  And  when  it's  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  "  when  it's  like  that,  there's  only 
one  way  to  take.  What's  the  good  of  fighting  against 
life  ?  We're  not  going  to  fight  any  more,  Thomas  and 
I.  We're  going  simply  to  grab  everything  we  can  get. 
The  more  things  the  better ;  I  always  knew  that.  Who 
wants  to  be  a  miserable  Franciscan  on  the  desert  hills  ? 
It's  so  unutterably  profane.  Here  begins  the  new  life." 

They  sat  in  silence  together  on  the  creeping,  earth- 
rooted  ivy  out  of  which  all  the  little  flowers  and  things 
grew;  and  all  round  them  the  birds  sang  how  it  was 


THE  NEW  LIFE  263 

spring-time.  The  fever  of  the  spring  was  in  Peter's 
blood,  flowing  through  his  veins  like  fire,  and  he  knew 
only  that  life  was  good  and  lovely  and  was  calling  to 
the  three  of  them  to  come  and  live  it,  to  take  the  April 
paths  together  through  green  woods.  The  time  was  not 
long  past,  though  it  seemed  endless  years  ago,  when  he 
would  have  liked  them  to  be  four,  when  he  would  have 
liked  Denis  to  come  too,  because  he  had  so  loved  Denis 
that  to  hurt  him  and  leave  him  would  have  been  un- 
thinkable. But  the  time  was  past.  Peter  and  Lucy 
had  come  to  the  place  where  they  couldn't  share  and 
didn't  want  to,  and  no  love  but  one  matured.  They 
had  left  civilisation,  left  friendship,  which  is  part  of 
civilisation,  behind,  and  knew  only  the  primitive,  self- 
ish, human  love  that  demands  all  of  body  and  soul. 
They  needed  no  words  to  explain  to  one  another  their 
change  of  view.  For  always  they  had  leaped  to  one 
another's  thoughts  and  emotions  and  desires. 

Lucy  said  wistfully,  after  a  time,  "  Denis  will  never 
see  us  again." 

But  thoughts  of  Denis  did  not,  could  not,  dim  the 
radiant  vision  of  roads  running  merrily  through  the 
country  of  the  spring. 

Thomas  here  said  that  it  was  milk-time,  and  Peter, 
who  had  thoughtfully  remembered  to  bring  his  bottle, 
produced  it  from  his  pocket  and  applied  it,  while  Lucy 
looked  on  and  laughed. 

"  In  future,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  take  over  that  job." 

"  I  wonder,"  murmured  Peter,  "  exactly  what  we 
contemplate  living  on.  Shall  we  sell  boot-laces  on  the 
road,  or  play  a  barrel-organ,  or  what  ? " 

"  Oh,  anything  that's  nice.  But  I've  got  a  little, 
you  know.  Father  hadn't  much,  but  there  was  some- 
thing for  Felicity  and  me.  It's  seemed  nothing,  com- 
pared with  what  I've  been  living  on  lately;  but  it  will 


264  THE  LEE  SHORE 

look  quite  a  lot  when  it's  all  we've  got.  .  .  .  Father' d 
be  glad,  Peter,  if  he  knew.  He'd  say  we  ought  to  do 
it,  I  know  he  would.  It's  partly  him  I've  been 
hearing  all  this  time,  calling  and  calling  to  me  to  come 
away  and  live.  He  did  so  hate  fat  and  sweetness  and 
all  smothering  things.  They  just  bored  him  dreadfully. 
He  wouldn't  ever  come  and  stay  with  us,  you  know. 
.  .  .  Oh,  and  I've  written  to  Felicity,  telling  her  what 
I  meant  to  do.  I  don't  quite  know  what  she'll  say; 
nobody  ever  does  know,  with  Felicity.  .  .  .  Now  I'm 
going  back  to  the  house,  Peter,  and  you  and  Thomas 
must  go  back  too.  But  first  we'll  settle  what  to  do, 
and  when  to  do  it." 

It  didn't  take  much  settling,  between  three  people 
who  saw  no  difficulties  anywhere,  but  said  simply,  "  Let 
us  do  this,"  and  did  it,  as  children  do.  But  such  plans 
as  they  thought  desirable  they  made,  then  parted. 

"  I  shall  tell  Denis,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  must  do  that. 
I'll  explain  to  him  all  I  can,  and  leave  the  rest.  But 
not  yet.  I  shall  tell  him  on  Sunday  night." 

"  Yes,"  Peter  agreed,  simply,  while  the  shadow  fell 
again  momentarily  on  his  vision.  "  You  must  do  that, 
of  course.  .  .  ." 

He  left  it  at  that ;  for  Denis  he  had  no  words. 

Lucy  got  up,  and  laid  Thomas  in  Peter's  arms. 

"  How  much  I've  talked  and  talked,  Peter.  I've 
never  talked  so  much  before,  have  I  ?  And  I  s'pose 
I  never  will  again.  But  it  had  to  be  all  said  out  once. 
I'm  tired  of  only  thinking  things,  even  though  I  knew 
you  understood.  Saying  things  makes  them  alive. 
They're  alive  now,  and  always  will  be.  So  good- 
bye." 

They  stood  and  looked  at  one  another  for  a  moment 
in  silence,  then  turned  and  took  their  opposite  ways. 

Peter  didn't  go  back  to  London  till  the  late  afternoon. 


THE  NEW  LIFE  265 

He  had  things  to  show  Thomas  on  this  his  first  day  in 
the  country.  So  he  took  him  a  long  walk,  and  Thomas 
sat  in  meadows  and  got  a  near  view  of  cows  and  sheep, 
and  saw  Peter  paddle  in  a  stream  and  try  to  catch 
minnows  in  an  old  tin  pot  that  he  found. 

Another  thing  that  he  found,  or  rather  that  found 
them,  was  a  disreputable  yellow  dog.  He  was  accom- 
panying a  tramp  and  his  wife  along  the  road.  When 
the  tramp  sat  down  and  untied  a  handkerchief  full  of 
apple  pie  and  cold  potatoes  (tramps  have  delightful 
things  to  eat  as  a  rule)  the  dog  came  near  and  asked 
for  his  share,  and  was  violently  removed  to  a  distance 
by  the  tramp's  boot.  He  cried  and  ran  through  the 
hedge  and  came  upon  Peter  and  Thomas,  who  were 
sitting  on  the  other  side,  in  a  field.  Peter  looked  over 
the  hedge  and  said,  "  Is  he  yours  ? "  and  was  told, 
"  Mine !  No,  'e  ain't.  'E's  been  follerin'  us  for  miles, 
and  the  more  I  kick  'im  the  more  'e  follers.  Wish 
someone'd  pison  'im.  I'm  sick  of  'im."  His  wife, 
who  had  the  weary,  hopeless,  utterly  resigned  face  of 
some  female  tramps,  said,  "  'E'll  do  for  'im  soon,  my 
man  will,"  without  much  interest. 

"  I'll  take  him  with  me,"  said  Peter,  and  drew  the 
disreputable  creature  to  him  and  gently  rubbed  his 
bruised  side,  and  saw  that  he  had  rather  a  nice  face, 
meant  to  be  cheerful,  and  friendly  and  hopeful  eyes. 
Indeed,  he  must  be  friendly  and  hopeful  to  have  fol- 
lowed such  companions  so  far. 

"  Will  you  be  our  dog?  "  said  Peter  to  him.  "  Will 
you  come  walking  with  us  in  future,  and  have  a  little 
bit  of  whatever  we  get?  And  shall  we  call  you  San 
Francesco,  because  you  like  disreputable  people  and 
love  your  brother,  the  sun,  and  keep  company  with 
your  little  sisters,  the  fleas?  Very  good,  then.  This 
is  Thomas,  and  you  may  lick  his  face  very  gently,  but 


266  THE  LEE  SHORE 

remember  that  he  is  smaller  than  you  and  Has  to  be 
tenderly  treated  lest  he  break." 

San  Francesco  stayed  with  them  through  the  after- 
noon, and  accompanied  them  back  to  London,  smuggled 
under  a  seat,  because  Peter  couldn't  afford  a  ticket  for 
him.  He  proved  a  likeable  being  on  further  acquaint- 
ance, with  a  merry  grin  and  an  amused  cock  of  the  eye ; 
obviously  one  who  took  the  world's  vagaries  with  hu- 
morous patience.  Peter  conveyed  him  from  Padding- 
ton  to  Mary  Street  with  some  difficulty,  and  bought  a 
bone  for  him  from  a  cat's-meat-what-orfers  man,  and 
took  him  up  to  the  bright  and  beautiful  sitting-room. 
Then  he  told  his  landlady  that  he  was  about  to  leave 
her. 

"  It  isn't  that  I'm  not  satisfied,  you  know,"  he  added, 
fearing  to  hurt  her,  "  but  I'm  going  to  give  up  lodgings 
altogether.  I'm  going  abroad,  to  Italy,  on  Monday." 

""  /  see."  Mrs.  Baker  saw  everything  in  a  moment. 
Her  young  gentleman  had  obviously  been  over-spending 
his  income  (all  these  new  things  must  have  cost  a  pretty 
penny),  and  had  discovered,  what  many  discover,  that 
flight  was  the  only  remedy. 

"  About  the  rent,"  she  began,  "  and  the  bills  .  .  ." 

Peter  said,  "  Oh,  I'll  pay  you  the  rent  and  the  bills 
before  I  go.  I  promise  I  will.  But  I  can't  pay  much 
else,  you  know,  Mrs.  Baker.  So  when  people  come  to 
dun  me,  tell  them  I've  gone  no  one  knows  where.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  about  it,  but  I've  simply  no  money  left." 

His  smile,  as  always,  softened  her,  and  she  nodded. 

"  I'll  deal  with  'em,  sir  ...  I  knew  you  was  over- 
spending yourself,  as  it  were;  I  could  have  told  you, 
but  I  didn't  like.  You'd  always  lived  so. cheap  and 
quiet  till  the  day  before  yesterday;  then  all  these  new 
things  so  suddenly.  Ader  and  I  said  as  you  must  'ave 


THE  NEW  LIFE  267 

come  in  for  some  money,  or  else  as  (you'll  excuse  me, 
sir)  you  was  touched  in  the  'ead." 

"  I  wasn't,"  said  Peter.  "  Not  in  the  least.  I 
wanted  the  things,  so  I  got  them.  But  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  shan't  want  most  of  them  any  more,  as 
I'm  going  away,  so  I  think  I'll  just  return  them  to  the 
shops  they  came  from.  Of  course  they  won't  be 
pleased,  but  they'll  prefer  it  to  losing  the  money  and 
the  things,  I  suppose,  won't  they.  And  we  haven't 
spoiled  them  a  bit,  except  that  cushion  Francesco  has 
just  walked  over,  and  that  can  be  cleaned,  I  expect. 
I  had  to  have  them,  you  know,  just  when  I  wanted 
them;  I  couldn't  have  borne  not  to;  but  I  don't  really 
need  them  any  more,  because  I'm  going  to  have  other 
things  now.  Oh,  I'm  talking  too  much,  and  you  want 
to  be  cooking  the  supper,  don't  you,  and  I  want  to  put 
Thomas  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    LAST    LOSS 

THREE  days  later  it  was  Easter  Day.  In  the  even- 
ing, about  half-past  nine,  when  Thomas  lay  sleeping 
and  Peter  was  packing  the  rugs  and  cushions  and  pic- 
tures he  hadn't  paid  for  into  brown  paper  parcels  (a 
tedious  job),  Rodney  came  in.  Peter  hadn't  seen  him 
for  some  time. 

"  What  on  earth,"  said  Rodney,  lighting  his  pipe 
and  sitting  down,  "  are  you  doing  with  all  that  up- 
holstery? Has  someone  been  sending  you  Easter 
presents?  Well,  I'm  glad  you're  getting  rid  of  them 
as  speedily  as  may  be." 

Peter  said  ruefully,  because  he  was  tired  of  the  busi- 
ness, "  The  stupid  things  aren't  paid  for.  So  I'm 
packing  them  up  to  be  sent  back  directly  the  shops  open 
again.  I  can't  afford  them,  you  see.  Already  most  of 
my  belongings  are  in  pawn." 

"  I  see."  Eodney  wasn't  specially  struck  by  this ; 
it  was  the  chronic  condition  of  many  of  his  friends, 
who  were  largely  of  the  class  who  pawn  their  clothes 
on  Monday  and  redeem  them  on  Saturday  to  wear  for 
Sunday,  and  pawn  them  again,  paying,  if  they  can 
afford  it,  a  penny  extra  to  have  the  dresses  hung  up 
so  that  they  don't  crush. 

"  A  sudden  attack  of  honesty,"  Eodney  commented. 
"  Well,  I'm  glad,  because  I  don't  see  what  you  want 
to  cumber  yourself  with  all  those  cushions  and  rugs 
for.  You're  quite  comfortable  enough  without  them." 

268 


THE  LAST  LOSS  269 

Peter  said,  "  Thomas  and  I  wanted  nice  things  to 
look  at.  We  were  tired  of  horse-hair  and  '  Grace  Suffi- 
cient.' Thomas  is  fastidious." 

Rodney  put  a  large  finger  on  Thomas'  head. 

"  Thomas  isn't  such  a  fool.  .  .  .  Hullo,  there's  an- 
other of  you."  Francesco  woke  and  came  out  of  his 
corner  and  laid  his  nose  on  Eodney's  knee  with  his  con- 
fiding grin. 

"  Yes,  that's  San  Francesco.  Rather  nice,  isn't  he. 
He's  coming  with  us  too.  I  called  him  Francesco 
instead  of  Francis  that  he  might  feel  at  home  in  Italy." 

"  Oh,  in  Italy." 

Peter  hadn't  meant  to  tell  Rodney  that,  because  he 
didn't  think  that  Rodney  would  approve,  and  he  wanted 
to  avoid  an  argument.  But  he  had  let  it  out,  of  course ; 
he  could  never  keep  anything  in. 

"  That's  where  we're  going  to-morrow,  to  seek  our 
fortunes.  Won't  it  be  rather  good  in  Italy  now  ?  We 
don't  know  what  we  shall  do  when  we  get  there,  or 
where  we  shall  go ;  but  something  nice,  for  sure." 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Rodney.  "  It's  a  good  country  in 
the  spring.  Shall  you  walk  the  roads  with  Thomas 
slung  over  your  back,  or  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Partly,  I  daresay.  But  we  want 
to  find  some  little  place  between  the  hills  and  the  sea, 
and  stay  there.  Perhaps  for  always;  I  don't  know. 
It's  going  to  be  extraordinarily  nice,  anyhow." 

Rodney  glanced  at  him,  caught  by  the  ring  in  his 
voice,  a  ring  he  hadn't  heard  for  long.  He  didn't 
quite  understand  Peter.  When  last  he  saw  him,  he 
had  been  very  far  through,  alarmingly  near  the  bottom. 
Was  this  recovery  natural  grace,  or  had  something 
happened?  It  seemed  to  Rodney  rather  admirable, 
and  he  looked  appreciatively  at  Peter's  cheerful  face 
and  happy  eyes. 


270  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Good,"  he  said.     "  Good  —  splendid !  " 

And  then  Peter,  meeting  his  pleased  look  and  under- 
standing it,  winced  back  from  it,  and  coloured,  and 
bent  over  his  brown  paper  and  string.  He  valued 
Rodney's  appreciation,  a  thing  not  easily  won.  He 
felt  that  in  this  moment  he  had  won  it,  as  he  had 
never  won  it  before.  For  he  knew  that  Rodney  liked 
pluck,  and  was  thinking  him  plucky. 

Against  his  will  he  muttered,  half  beneath  his  breath, 
"  Oh,  it  isn't  really  what  you  call  good.  It  is  good, 
you  know:  I  think  it's  good;  but  you  won't.  You'll 
call  it  abominable." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rodney. 

Peter  went  on,  with  a  new  violence,  "  I  know  all 
you'll  say  about  it,  so  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  the 
opportunity  of  saying  it  till  I'm  gone.  You  needn't 
think  I'm  going  to  tell  you  now  and  let  you  tell  me 
I'm  wrong.  I'm  not  wrong;  and  if  I  am  I  don't  care. 
Please  don't  stay  any  more;  I'd  rather  you  weren't 
here  to-night.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  anything ;  only 
I  had  just  got  to  say  that,  because  you  were  thinking. 
.  .  .  Oh,  do  go  now." 

Rodney  sat  quite  still  and  looked  at  him,  into  him, 
through  him,  beyond  him.  Then  he  said,  "  You 
needn't  tell  me  anything.  I  know.  Lucy  and  you  are 
going  together." 

Peter  stood  up,  rather  unsteadily. 

"  Well  ?  That's  not  clever.  Any  fool  could  have 
guessed  that." 

"  Yes.  And  any  fool  could  guess  what  I'm  going 
to  say  about  it,  too.  You  know  it  all  already,  of 
course.  ..." 

Rodney  was  groping  for  words,  helplessly,  blindly. 

"  Peter,  I  didn't  know  you  had  it  in  you  to  be  a 
cad." 


THE  LAST  LOSS  271 

Peter  was  putting  books  into  a  portmanteau,  and  did 
not  answer. 

"  You  mean  to  do  that  ...  to  Denis.  .  .  ." 

Peter  put  in  socks  and  handkerchiefs. 

"  And  to  Lucy.  ...  I  don't  understand  you,  Peter. 
...  I  simply  don't  understand.  Are  you  mad  —  or 
drunk  —  or  didn't  I  really  ever  know  you  in  the  least  ?  " 

Peter  stuffed  in  Thomas'  nightgowns,  crumpling 
them  hideously. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Eodney,  very  quietly.  "  It 
doesn't  particularly  matter  which  it  is.  In  any  case 
you  are  not  going  to  do  it.  I  shall  prevent  it." 

"  You  can't,"  Peter  flung  at  him,  crushing  a  woolly 
rabbit  in  among  Thomas'  clothes. 

Rodney  sat  still  and  looked  at  him,  resting  his  chin 
on  his  hand ;  looked  into  him,  through  him,  beyond  him, 

"  I  believe  I  can,"  he  said  simply. 

Peter  stopped  filling  the  bag,  and,  still  sitting  on  the 
floor  by  it,  delivered  himself  at  last. 

"  We  care  for  each  other.  Isn't  that  to  count,  then? 
We  always  have  cared  for  each  other.  Are  we  to  do 
without  each  other  for  always  ?  We  want  each  other 
we  need  each  other.  Denis  doesn't  need  Lucy.  He 
never  did ;  not  as  I  do.  Are  Lucy  and  I  to  do  without 
each  other,  living  only  half  a  life,  because  of  him? 
I  tell  you,  I'm  sick  to  death  of  doing  without  things. 
The  time  has  come  when  it  won't  do  any  more,  and 
I'm  going  to  take  what  I  can.  I  think  I  would  rob  any- 
one quite  cheerfully  if  he  had  what  I  wanted.  A  few 
days  ago  I  did  rob;  I  bought  things  I  knew  I  couldn't 
pay  for.  I'm  sending  them  back  now  simply  because 
I  don't  want  them  any  more,  not  because  I'm  sorry  I 
took  them.  It  was  fair  I  should  take  them ;  it  was  my 
turn  to  have  things,  mine  and  Thomas's.  And  now 
I'm  going  to  take  this,  and  keep  it,  till  it's  taken  away 


272  THE  LEE  SHORE 

from  me.  I  daresay  it  will  be  taken  away  soon;  my 
things  always  are.  Everything  has  broken  and  gone, 
one  thing  after  another,  all  my  life  —  all  the  things 
I've  cared  for.  I'm  tired  of  it.  I  was  sick  of  it  by 
the  time  I  was  ten  years  old,  sick  of  always  getting  ill 
or  smashed  up;  and  that's  gone  on  ever  since,  and  peo- 
ple have  always  thought,  I  know,  t  Oh,  it's  only  him, 
he  never  minds  anything,  he  doesn't  count,  he's  just  a 
crock,  and  his  only  use  is  to  play  the  fool  for  us.'  But 
I  did  mind;  I  did.  And  I  only  played  the  fool  be- 
cause it  would  have  been  drearier  still  not  to,  and  be- 
cause there  was  always  something  amusing  left  to 
laugh  at,  not  because  I  didn't  mind.  And  then  I 
cared  for  Denis  as  ...  Oh,  but  you  know  how  I  cared 
for  Denis.  He  was  the  most  bright  and  splendid  thing 
I  knew  in  all  the  splendid  world  .  .  .  and  he  chucked 
me,  because  everything  went  wrong  that  could  go  wrong 
between  us  without  my  fault  .  .  .  and  our  friendship 
was  spoilt.  .  .  .  And  I  cared  for  Hilary  and  Peggy; 
and  they  would  go  and  do  things  to  spoil  all  our  lives, 
and  the  more  I  tried,  like  an  ass,  to  help,  the  more  I 
seemed  to  mess  things  up,  till  the  crash  came,  and  we 
all  went  to  bits  together.  And  we  had  to  give  up 
the  only  work  we  liked  —  and  I  did  love  mine  so  — 
and  slave  at  things  we  hated.  And  still  we  kept  sink- 
ing and  sinking,  and  crashing  on  worse  and  worse 
rocks,  till  we  hadn't  a  sound  piece  left  to  float  us.  And 
then,  when  I  thought  at  least  we  could  go  down  together, 
they  went  away  and  left  me  bejimd.  So  I'd  failed 
there  too,  hopelessly.  I  always  have  failed  in  every- 
thing I've  tried.  I  tried  to  make  Ehoda  happy,  but 
that  failed  too.  She  left  me;  and  now  she's  dead,  and 
Thomas  hasn't  any  mother  at  all.  .  .  .  And  Lucy  .  .  . 
whom  I'd  cared  for  since  before  I  could  remember  .  .  . 
and  I'd  always  thought,  without  thinking  about  it,  that 


THE  LAST  LOSS  273 

some  day  of  course  we  should  be  together  .  .  .  Lucy 
left  me,  and  our  caring  became  wrong,  so  that  at  last 
we  didn't  care  to  see  one  another  at  all.  And  then  it 
was  as  if  hell  had  opened  and  let  us  in.  The  other 
things  hadn't  counted  like  that;  health,  money,  beau- 
tiful things,  interesting  work,  honour,  friends,  mar- 
riage, even  Denis  —  they'd  all  collapsed  and  I  did 
mind,  horribly.  But  not  like  that.  As  long  as  I  could 
see  Lucy  sometimes,  I  could  go  on  —  and  I  had  Thomas 
too,  though  I  don't  know  why  he  hasn't  collapsed  yet. 
But  at  last,  quite  suddenly,  when  the  emptiness  and 
the  losing  had  been  getting  to  seem  worse  and  worse 
for  a  long  time,  they  became  so  bad  that  they  were  im- 
possible. I  got  angry;  it  was  for  Thomas  more  than 
for  myself,  I  think;  and  I  said  it  should  end.  I  said 
I  would  take  things ;  steal  them,  if  I  couldn't  get  them 
by  fair  means.  And  I  went  down  to  Astleys,  to  see 
them,  to  tell  them  it  must  end.  And  in  the  woods  I 
met  Lucy.  And  she'd  been  getting  to  know  too  that 
it  must  end,  for  her  sake  as  well  as  for  mine.  .  .  .  And 
so  we're  going  to  end  it,  and  begin  again.  We're  going 
to  be  happy,  because  life  is  too  jolly  to  miss." 

Peter  ended  defiantly,  and  flung  his  razor  in  among 
the  socks. 

Rodney  had  listened  quietly,  his  eyes  on  Peter's  pro- 
file. When  he  stayed  silent,  Peter  supposed  that  he 
had  at  last  convinced  him  of  the  unbreakable  strength 
of  his  purpose  for  iniquity,  and  that  he  would  give  him 
up  and  go  away.  After  a  minute  he  turned  and  looked 
up  at  Rodney,  and  said,  "  Now  do  you  see  that  it's  no 
good?" 

Rodney  took  out  his  pipe  and  knocked  it  out  and 
put  it  away  before  he  answered : 

"  I'm  glad  you've  said  all  that,  Peter.  Not  that  I 
didn't  know  it  all  before;  of  course  I  did.  When  I 


274  THE  LEE  SHORE 

said  at  first  that  I  didn't  understand  you,  I  was  lying. 
I  did  understand,  perfectly  well.  But  I'm  glad  you've 
said  it,  because  it's  well  to  know  that  you  realise  it 
so  clearly  yourself.  It  saves  my  explaining  it  to  you. 
It  gives  us  a  common  knowledge  to  start  on.  And  now 
may  I  talk  for  a  little,  please?  No,  not  for  a  little; 
for  some  time." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Peter.  "  But  it's  no  use,  you  know. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  mean  by  our  common  knowledge? 
The  knowledge  that  I'm  a  failure  ? " 

Rodney  nodded.  "  Precisely  that.  You've  stated 
the  case  so  clearly  yourself  —  in  outline,  for  you've 
left  out  a  great  deal,  of  course  —  that  really  it  doesn't 
leave  much  for  me  to  say.  Let's  leave  you  alone  for 
the  moment.  I  want  to  talk  about  other  people. 
There  are  other  people  in  the  world  besides  ourselves, 
of  course,  improbable  as  the  fact  occasionally  seems. 
The  fact,  I  mean,  that  it's  a  world  not  of  individual 
units  but  of  closely  connected  masses  of  people,  not  one 
of  whom  stands  alone.  One  can't  detach  oneself ;  one's 
got  to  be  in  with  one  camp  or  another.  The  world's 
full  of  different  and  opposing  camps  —  worse  luck. 
There  are  the  beauty-lovers  and  the  beauty-scorners, 
and  all  the  fluctuating  masses  in  between,  like  most 
of  us,  who  love  some  aspects  of  it  and  scorn  others. 
There  are  the  well-meaning  and  the  ill-meaning  —  and 
again  the  incoherent  cross-benchers,  who  mean  a  little 
good  and  a  little  harm  and  for  the  most  part  mean  noth- 
ing at  all  either  way.  Again,  there  are  what  people 
call  the  well-bred,  the  ill-bred,  and  of  course  the  half- 
bred.  An  idiotic  division  that,  because  what  do  we 
know,  any  of  us,  of  breeding,  that  we  should  call  it 
good  or  bad?  But  there  it  is;  a  most  well-marked 
division  in  everyone's  eyes.  And  (and  now  I'm  getting 
to  the  point)  there  are  the  rich  and  the  poor  —  or  call 


THE  LAST  LOSS  275 

them,  rather,  the  Haves  and  the  Have-nots.  I  don't 
mean  with  regard  to  money  particularly,  though  that 
comes  in.  But  it's  an  all-round  thing.  It's  an  un- 
doubted fact,  and  one  there's  no  getting  round,  that 
some  people  are  born  with  the  acquiring  faculty,  and 
others  with  the  losing.  Most  of  us,  of  course,  are  in 
the  half-way  house,  and  win  and  lose  in  fairly  average 
proportions.  But  some  of  us  seem  marked  out  either 
for  the  one  or  for  the  other.  I  know  personally  a  good 
many  in  both  camps.  Many  more  of  the  Have-nots, 
thoug;h,  because  I  prefer  to  cultivate  their  acquaintance. 
There's  a  great  deal  to  be  done  for  the  Haves  too ;  they 
need,  I  fancy,  all  the  assistance  they  can  get  if  they're 
not  to  become  prosperity-rotten.  The  Have-Nbts 
haven't  that  danger;  but  they've  plenty  of  dangers  of 
their  own;  and,  well,  I  suppose  it's  a  question  of  taste, 
and  that  I  prefer  them.  Anyhow,  I  do  know  a  great 
many.  People,  you  understand,  with  nothing  at  all 
that  seems  to  make  life  tolerable.  Destitutes,  inca- 
pables,  outcasts,  slaves  to  their  own  lusts  or  to  a  grind- 
ing economic  system  or  to  some  other  cruelty  of  fate 
or  men.  Whatever  the  immediate  cause  of  their  ill- 
fortune  may  be,  its  underlying,  fundamental  cause  is 
their  own  inherent  faculty  for  failure  and  loss,  their  in- 
competence to  take  and  hold  the  good  things  of  life. 
You  know  the  stale  old  hackneyed  cry  of  the  anti-so- 
cialists, how  it  would  be  no  use  equalising  conditions 
because  each  man  would  soon  return  again  to  his  orig- 
inal state.  It's  true  in  a  deeper  sense  than  they  mean. 
You  might  equalise  economic  conditions  as  much  as 
you  please,  but  you'd  never  equalise  fundamental  con- 
ditions; you'd  never  turn  the  poor  into  the  rich,  the 
Have-Nots  into  the  Haves.  You  know  I'm  not  a  So- 
cialist. I  don't  want  to  see  a  futile  attempt  to  throw 
down  barriers  and  merge  all  camps  in  one  indetermin- 


276  THE  LEE  SHORE 

ate  army  who  don't  know  what  they  mean  or  where 
they're  going.  I'm  not  a  Socialist,  because  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  a  universal  outward  prosperity.  I  mean,  I 
don't  want  it ;  I  should  have  no  use  for  it.  I'm  holding 
no  brief  for  the  rich ;  I've  nothing  to  say  about  them 
just  now;  and  anyhow  you  and  I  have  no  concern  with 
them."  Rodney  pulled  himself  back  from  the  edge 
of  a  topic  on  which  he  was  apt  to  become  readily 
vehement.  "  But  Socialism  isn't  the  way  out  for  them 
any  more  than  it's  the  way  out  for  the  poor;  it's  got, 
I  believe,  to  be  by  individual  renunciation  that  their  sal- 
vation will  come ;  by  their  giving  up,  and  stripping  bare, 
and  going  down  one  by  one  and  empty-handed  into  the 
common  highways,  to  take  their  share  of  hardness  like 
men.  It  will  be  extraordinarily  difficult.  Changing 
one's  camp  is.  It's  so  difficult  as  to  be  all  but  impos- 
sible. Perhaps  you've  read  the  Bible  story  of  the 
young  man  with  great  possessions,  and  how  it  was 
said,  l  With  men  it  is  impossible  .  .  .'  "Well,  the  tra- 
dition, true  or  false,  goes  that  in  the  end  he  did  it; 
gave  up  his  possessions  and  became  financially  poor. 
But  we  don't  know,  even  if  that's  true,  what  else  he 
kept  of  his  wealth ;  a  good  deal,  I  daresay,  that  wasn't 
money  or  material  goods.  One  can't  tell.  What  we 
do  know  is  that  to  cross  that  dividing  line,  to  change 
one's  camp,  is  a  nearly  impossible  thing.  Someone 
says,  '  That  division,  the  division  of  those  who  have 
and  those  who  have  not,  runs  so  deep  as  almost  to  run 
to  the  bottom.'  The  great  division,  he  calls  it,  between 
those  who  seize  and  those  who  lose.  Well,  the  Haves 
aren't  always  seizers,  I  think ;  often  —  more  often,  per- 
haps —  they  have  only  to  move  tranquilly  through  life 
and  let  gifts  drop  into  their  hands.  It's  pleasant  to 
see,  if  we  are  not  in  a  mood  to  be  jarred.  It's  often 
attractive.  It  was  mainly  that  that  attracted  you  long 


THE  LAST  LOSS  277 

ago  in  Denis  Urquhart.  The  need  and  the  want  in 
you,  who  got  little  and  lost  much,  was  somehow  vicari- 
ously satisfied  by  the  gifts  he  received  from  fortune; 
by  his  beauty  and  strength  and  good  luck  and  power  of 
winning  and  keeping.  He  was  pleasant  in  your  eyes, 
because  of  these  gifts  of  his;  and,  indeed,  they  made 
of  him  a  pleasant  person,  since  he  had  nothing  to  be 
unpleasant  about.  So  your  emptiness  found  pleasure 
in  his  fullness,  your  poverty  in  his  riches,  your  weak- 
ness in  his  strength,  and  you  loved  him.  And  I  think 
if  anything  could  (yet)  have  redeemed  him,  have  saved 
him  from  his  prosperity,  it  would  have  been  your  love. 
But  instead  of  letting  it  drag  him  down  into  the  scrum 
and  the  pity  and  the  battle  of  life,  he  turned  away 
from  it  and  kept  it  at  a  distance,  and  shut  himself  more 
closely  between  his  protecting  walls  of  luxury  and  well- 
being.  Then,  again,  Lucy  gave  him  his  chance ;  but  he 
hasn't  (so  far)  followed  her  love  either.  She'd  have 
led  him,  if  she  could,  out  of  the  protecting,  confining 
walls,  into  the  open,  where  people  are  struggling  and 
perishing  for  lack  of  a  little  pity;  'but  he  wouldn't. 
So  far  the  time  hasn't  been  ripe  for  his  saving ;  his  day 
is  still  to  come.  It's  up  to  all  of  us  who  care  for  him 
—  and  can  any  of  us  help  it  ?  —  to  save  him  from  him- 
self. And  chiefly  it's  your  job  and  Lucy's.  You  can 
do  your  part  now  only  by  clearing  out  of  the  way, 
and  leaving  Lucy  to  do  hers.  She  will  do  it,  I  firmly 
believe,  in  the  end,  if  you  give  her  time.  Lucy,  I 
know,  for  I  have  seen  it  when  I  have  been  with  her, 
has  been  troubled  about  her  own  removal  from  the 
arena,  about  her  own  being  confined  between  walla  so 
that  she  can't  hear  the  people  outside  calling;  but  that 
is  mere  egotism.  She  can  hear  and  see  all  right;  she 
has  all  her  senses,  and  she  will  never  stop  using  them. 
It's  her  business  to  be  concerned  for  Denis,  who  is  blind 


278  THE  LEE  SHORE 

and  deaf.  It's  her  business  to  use  her  own  caring  to 
make  him  care.  She's  got  to  drag  him  out,  not  to  let 
herself  be  shut  inside  with  him.  It  can  be  done,  and 
Lucy,  if  anyone  in  the  world,  can  do  it  —  if  she  doesn't 
give  up  and  shirk.  Lucy,  if  anyone  in  the  world,  has 
the  right  touch,  the  right  loosing  power,  to  set  Denis 
free.  I  think  that  you  too  have  the  touch  and  the 
power  —  but  you  mustn't  use  yours;  the  time  for  that 
is  gone  by.  Yours  is  the  much  harder  business  of  clear- 
ing out  of  the  way.  If  you  ever  loved  Denis,  you  will 
do  that." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Peter,  who  was  still  sitting 
on  the  floor,  motionless,  with  bent  head. 

"  May  I  go  on  ?  "  said  Rodney,  and  Peter  answered 
nothing. 

Rodney  looked  away  again  out  of  the  window  into 
a  grey  night  sky  that  hid  the  Easter  moon,  and  went 
on,  gently.  He  was  tired  of  talking ;  his  discourse  had 
been  already  nearly  as  long  as  an  average  woman ;  but 
he  went  on  deliberately  talking  and  talking,  to  give 
Peter  time. 

"  So,  you  see,  that  is  an  excellent  reason  —  to  you 
it  is,  I  believe,  the  incontrovertible  reason  —  why  you 
should  once  more  give  up  and  lose,  and  not  take.  But, 
deeper  than  that,  to  me  more  insurmountable  than  that, 
is  the  true  reason,  which  is  simply  that  that  very  thing 
—  to  lose,  to  do  without  —  is  your  business  in  life,  as 
you've  said  yourself.  It's  your  profession.  You  are 
in  the  camp  of  the  Have-Nots ;  you  belong  there.  You 
can't  desert.  You  can't  step  out  and  go  over  to  the 
enemy.  If  you  did,  if  you  could  (only  you  can't)  it 
would  be  a  betrayal.  And,  whatever  you  gained,  you'd 
lose  by  it  what  you  have  at  present  —  your  fellowship 
with  the  other  unfortunates.  Isn't  that  a  thing  worth 
having?  Isn't  it  something  to  be  down  on  the  ground 


THE  LAST  LOSS  279 

with  the  poor  and  empty-handed,  not  above  them,  where 
you  can't  hear  them  crying  and  laughing  ?  Would  you, 
if  you  could,  be  one  of  the  prosperous,  who  don't  care  ? 
Would  you,  if  you  could,  be  one  of  those  who  have  their 
joy  in  life  ready-made  and  put  into  their  hands,  instead 
of  one  of  the  poor  craftsmen  who  have  to  make  their 
own  ?  What's  the  gaiety  of  the  saints  ?  Not  the  pleas- 
ant cheerfulness  of  the  Denis  Urquharts  and  their  kind, 
who  have  things,  but  the  gaiety,  in  the  teeth  of  cir- 
cumstances, of  St.  Francis  and  his  paupers,  who  have 
nothing  and  yet  possess  all  things.  That's  your  gaiety ; 
the  gaiety  that  plays  the  fool,  as  you  put  it,  looking 
into  the  very  eyes  of  agony  and  death;  that  loses  and 
laughs  and  makes  others  laugh  in  the  last  ditch;  the 
gaiety  of  those  who  drop  all  cargoes,  fortune  and  good 
name  and  love,  overboard  lightly,  and  still  spread  sail 
to  the  winds  and  voyage,  and  when  they're  driven  by  the 
winds  at  last  onto  a  lee  shore,  derelicts  clinging  to  a 
broken  wreck,  find  on  the  shore  coloured  shells  to  play 
with  and  still  are  gay.  That's  your  gaiety,  as  I've  al- 
ways known  it  and  loved  it.  Are  you  going  to  chuck 
that  gaiety  away,  and  rise  up  full  of  the  lust  to  possess, 
and  take  and  grasp  and  plunder?  Are  you  going  to 
desert  the  empty-handed  legion,  whose  van  you've 
marched  in  all  your  life,  and  join  the  prosperous  ? " 
Rodney  broke  off  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  waited  for  an 
answer.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  began  to  walk 
about  the  room,  speaking  again,  with  a  more  alright 
vehemence.  "  Oh,  you  may  think  this  is  mere  romance, 
fancy,  sentiment,  what  you  will.  But  it  isn't.  It's 
deadly,  solid  truth.  You  can't  grasp.  You  can't  try  to 
change  your  camp.  You  —  and  Lucy  too,  for  she's  in 
the  same  camp  —  wouldn't  be  happy,  to  put  it  at  its 
simplest.  You'd  know  all  the  time  that  you'd  shirked, 
deserted,  been  false  to  your  business.  You'd  be  fishes 


280  THE  LEE  SHORE 

out  of  water,  with  the  knowledge  that  you'd  taken  for 
your  own  pleasure  something  that  someone  else  ought 
to  have  had.  It  isn't  in  either  of  you  to  do  it.  You 
must  leave  such  work  to  the  Haves.  Why,  what  hap- 
pens the  first  time  you  try  it  on  ?  You  have  to  send 
back  the  goods  you've  tried  to  appropriate  to  where  they 
came  from.  It  would  be  the  same  always.  You  don't 
know  how  to  possess.  Then  in  heaven's  name  leave 
possessing  alone,  and  stick  to  the  job  you  are  good  at  — 
doing  without.  For  you  are  good  at  that.  You  al- 
ways have  been,  except  just  for  just  one  short  inter- 
lude, which  will  pass  like  an  illness  and  leave  you  well 
again.  Believe  me,  it  will.  I  don't  know  when,  or 
how  soon;  but  I  do  know  that  sometime  you  will  be 
happy  again,  with  the  things,  the  coloured  shells,  so  to 
speak,  that  you  find  still  when  all  the  winds  and  storms 
have  done  their  worst  and  all  your  cargoes  are  broken 
wrecks  at  your  feet.  It  will  be  then,  in  that  last  empti- 
ness, that  you'll  come  to  terms  with  disaster,  and  play 
the  fool  again  to  amuse  yourself  and  the  other  derelicts, 
because,  when  there's  nothing  else  left,  there's  always 
laughter." 

Rodney  had  walked  to  the  window,  and  now  stood 
looking  out  at  the  dim,  luminous  night,  wherein, 
shrouded,  the  Easter  moon  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
shadows.  From  many  churches,  many  clocks  chimed 
the  hour.  Rodney  spoke  once  more,  slowly,  leaning 
out  into  the  shadowy  night. 

"  Through  this  week,"  he  said,  "  they  have  been 
watching  in  those  churches  a  supreme  renouncement, 
the  ultimate  agony  of  giving  up,  the  last  triumph  of 
utter  loss.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  that;  it's  not 
my  business  or  my  right  .  .  .  But  it  surely  counts,  that 
giving  up  whatever  we  may  or  may  not  believe  about 
it.  It  shines,  a  terrible  counsel  of  perfection  for  those 


THE  LAST  LOSS  281 

who  have,  burning  and  hurting.  But  for  those  who 
have  not,  it  doesn't  burn  and  hurt;  it  shines  to  cheer 
and  comfort ;  it  is  the  banner  of  the  leader  of  the  losing 
legion,  lifted  up  that  the  rest  may  follow  after.  Does 
that  help  at  all?  ...  Perhaps  at  this  moment  noth- 
ing helps  at  all.  ...  Have  I  said  enough  ?  Need  I  go 
on?" 

Peter's  voice,  flat  and  dead,  spoke  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  dim  room. 

"  You  have  said  enough.     You  need  not  go  on." 

Then  Rodney  turned  and  saw  him,  sitting  still  on  the 
floor  by  the  half-packed  bag,  with  the  yellow  dog  sleep- 
ing against  him.  In  the  dim  light  his  face  looked  pale 
and  pinched  like  a  dead  man's. 

"You've  done  your  work,"  the  flat  voice  said. 
"  You've  taken  it  away  —  the  new  life  we  so  wanted. 
.You've  shown  that  it  can't  be.  You're  quite  right. 
And  you're  right  too  that  nothing  helps  at  all.  .  .  . 
Because  of  Denis,  I  can't  do  this.  But  I  find  no  good 
in  emptiness;  why  should  I?  I  want  to  have  things 
and  enjoy  them,  at  this  moment,  more  desperately  than 
you,  who  praise  emptiness  and  doing  without,  ever 
wanted  anything." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  Rodney. 

"  You've  got  in  the  way,"  said  Peter,  looking  up  at 
the  tall  gaunt  figure  by  the  window;  and  anger  shook 
him.  "  You've  stepped  in  and  spoilt  it  all.  Yes,  you 
needn't  be  afraid;  you've  spoilt  it  quite  irrevocably. 
You  knew  that  to  mention  Denis  was  enough  to  do  that. 
I  was  trying  to  forget  him ;  I  could  have,  till  it  was  too 
late.  You  can  go  home  now  and  feel  quite  easy ;  you've 
done  your  job.  There's  to  be  no  new  life  for  me,  or 
Thomas,  or  Lucy,  or  Francesco  —  only  the  same  old 
emptiness.  The  same  old  .  .  .  oh,  damn !  " 

Peter,  who  never  swore,  that  ugly  violence  being  re- 


282  THE  LEE  SHORE 

pugnant  to  his  nature,  swore  now,  and  woke  Francesco, 
who  put  up  his  head  to  lick  his  friend's  face.  But 
Peter  pushed  him  away,  surprising  him  violently,  and 
caught  at  his  half-filled  bag  and  snatched  at  the  con- 
tents and  flung  them  on  the  top  of  one  another  on  the 
floor.  They  lay  in  a  jumbled  chaos  —  Thomas's 
clothes  and  Peter's  socks  and  razor  and  Thomas's  rab- 
bit and  Peter's  books;  and  Francesco  snuffled  among 
them  and  tossed  them  about,  thinking  it  a  new  game. 

"  Go  away  now."  Peter  flung  out  the  words  like 
another  oath.  "  Go  away  to  your  poverty  which  you 
like,  and  leave  us  to  ours  which  we  hate.  There's  no 
more  left  for  you  to  take  away  from  us;  it's  all  gone. 
Unless  you'd  like  me  to  throw  Thomas  out  of  the  win- 
dow, since  you  think  breakages  are  so  good." 

Eodney  merely  said,  "  I'm  not  going  away  just  yet. 
Could  you  let  me  stay  here  for  the  night  and  sleep  on 
the  sofa?  It's  late  to  go  back  to-night." 

"  Sleep  where  you  like,"  said  Peter.  "  There's  the 
bed.  I  don't  want  it." 

But  Eodney  stretched  himself  instead  on  the  horse- 
hair sofa.  He  said  no  more,  knowing  that  the  time 
for  words  was  past.  He  lay  tired  and  quiet,  with  closed 
eyes,  knowing  how  Peter  and  the  other  disreputable 
forsaken  outcast  sat  together  huddled  on  the  floor 
through  the  dim  night,  till  the  dawn  looked  palely  in 
and  showed  them  both  fallen  asleep,  Peter's  head  rest- 
ing on  Francesco's  yellow  back. 

It  was  Eodney  who  got  up  stiffly  from  his  hard  rest- 
ing-place in  the  dark  unlovely  morning,  and  made  tea 
over  Peter's  spirit-lamp  for  both  of  them.  Peter  woke 
later,  and  drank  it  mechanically.  Then  he  looked  at 
Eodney  and  said,  "  I'm  horribly  stiff.  Why  did  neither 
of  us  go  to  bed  ? "  He  was  pale  and  heavy-eyed,  and 
violent  no  more,  but  very  quiet  and  tired,  as  if,  ac- 


THE  LAST  LOSS  283 

cepting,  lie  was  sinking  deep  in  grey  and  cold  seas,  that 
numbed  resistance  and  drowned  words. 

The  milk  came  in,  and  Peter  gave  Thomas  to  drink; 
and  on  the  heels  of  the  milk  came  the  post,  and  a  let- 
ter for  Peter. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Peter  dully,  as  he  opened  it,  "  she 
too  has  found  out  that  it  can't  be  done." 

The  letter  said :  "  Peter,  we  can't  do  it.  I  am  hor- 
ribly, horribly  sorry,  but  I  know  it  now  for  certain. 
Perhaps  you  know  it  too,  by  now.  Because  the  reason 
is  in  you,  not  in  me.  It  is  that  you  love  Denis  too 
much.  So  you  couldn't  be  happy.  I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  more  than  I  want  anything  in  the  world,  but 
it  can't  be  this  way.  Please,  dear  Peter,  be  happy 
sometime;  please,  please  be  happy.  I  love  you  always 
—  if  that  helps  at  all. —  LUCY." 

Peter  let  the  note  fall  on  the  floor,  and  stood  with 
bent  head  by  the  side  of  Thomas's  crib,  while  Thomas 
guggled  his  milk. 

"  Two  minds  with  but  a  single  thought,"  he  remarked, 
in  that  new,  dreary  voice  of  his.  "  As  always.  .  .  . 
Well,  it  saves  trouble.  And  we're  utterly  safe  now,  you 
see;  doubly  safe.  You  can  go  home  in  peace." 

Then  Rodney,  knowing  that  he  could  be  no  more  use, 
left  the  three  derelicts  together. 


ON    THE    SHOEE 

THEBE  is  a  shore  along  which  the  world  flowers,  one 
long  sweet  garden  strip,  between  the  olive-grey  hills 
and  the  very  blue  sea.  Like  nosegays  in  the  garden 
the  towns  are  set,  blooming  in  their  many  colours,  linked 
by  the  white  road  running  above  blue  water.  For 
vagabonds  in  April  the  poppies  riot  scarlet  by  the  white 
road's  edge,  and  the  last  of  the  hawthorn  lingers  like 
melting  snow,  and  over  the  garden  walls  the  purple 
veils  of  the  wistaria  drift  like  twilight  mist.  Over  the 
garden  walls,  too,  the  sweetness  of  the  orange  and  lemon 
blossom  floats  into  the  road,  and  the  frangipani  sends 
delicate  wafts  down,  and  the  red  and  white  roses  toss 
and  hang  as  if  they  had  brimmed  over  from  sheer  ex- 
uberance. If  a  door  in  one  of  the  walls  chance  to 
stand  ajar,  vagabonds  on  the  road  may  look  in  and  see 
an  Eden,  unimaginably  sweet,  aflame  with  oleanders 
and  pomegranate  blossom,  and  white  like  snow  with  tall 
lilies. 

The  road  itself  is  good,  bordered  on  one  side  by  the 
garden  sweetness  and  the  blossoms  that  foam  like  wave- 
crests  over  the  walls,  on  the  other  breaking  down  to 
a  steep  hill-slope  where  all  the  wild  flowers  of  spring 
star  the  grassy  terraces,  singing  at  the  twisted  feet  of, 
the  olives  that  give  them  grey  shadow.  So  the  hill- 
side runs  steeply  down  to  where  at  its  rocky  base  the 
blue  waves  murmur.  All  down  the  coast  the  road  turns 
and  twists  and  climbs  and  dips,  above  little  lovely  bays 

284 


ON  THE  SHORE  285 

and  through  little  gay  towns,  caught  between  moun- 
tains and  blue  water.  For  those  who  want  a  bed,  the 
hush  of  the  moonlit  olives  that  shadow  the  terraced 
slopes  gives  sweeter  sleep  than  the  inns  of  the  towns, 
and  the  crooning  of  the  quiet  sea  is  a  gentler  lullaby 
than  the  noises  of  streets,  and  the  sweetness  of  the 
myrtle  blossom  is  better  to  breathe  than  the  warm  air 
of  rooms.  To  wander  in  spring  beneath  the  sun  by  day 
and  the  moon  by  night  along  the  sea's  edge  is  a  good 
life,  a  beautiful  life,  a  cheerful  and  certainly  an  amus- 
ing life.  Social  adventures  crowd  the  road.  There 
are  pleasant  people  along  this  shore  of  little  blue  bays. 
Besides  the  ordinary  natives  of  the  towns  and  the  coun- 
try-side, and  besides  the  residents  in  the  hotels  (whose 
uses  to  vagabonds  are  purely  financial)  there  is  on  this 
shore  a  drifting  and  incalculable  population,  heteroge- 
neous, yet  with  a  note  of  character  common  to  all.  A 
population  cosmopolitan  and  shifting,  living  from  hand 
to  mouth,  vagrants  of  the  road  or  of  the  street  corner, 
finding  life  a  warm  and  easy  thing  in  this  long  garden 
shut  between  hills  and  sea.  So  warm  and  lovely  and 
easy  a  garden  is  it  that  it  has  for  that  reason  become  a 
lee  shore;  a  shore  where  the  sick  and  the  sad  and  the 
frail  and  the  unfortunate  are  driven  by  the  winds  of 
adversity  to  find  a  sheltered  peace.  On  the  shore  all 
things  may  be  given  up;  there  is  no  need  to  hold  with 
effort  any  possession,  even  life  itself,  for  all  things 
become  gifts,  easily  bestowed  and  tranquilly  received. 
You.  may  live  on  extremely  little  there,  and  win  that 
little  lightly.  You  may  sell  things  along  the  road  for 
some  dealer,  or  for  yourself  —  plaster  casts,  mosaic 
brooches,  picture  postcards,  needlework  of  divers  col- 
ours. If  you  have  a  small  cart  drawn  by  a  small  don- 
key, you  are  a  lucky  man,  and  can  carry  your  wares 
about  in  it  and  sell  them  %t  the  hotels,  or  in  the  towns 


286  THE  LEE  SHORE 

at  fair-time.  If  you  possess  an  infant  son,  you  can 
carry  him  also  about  in  the  cart,  and  he  will  enjoy  it. 
Also,  if  your  conversation  is  like  the  sun's,  with  a 
friendly  aspect  to  good  and  bad,  you  will  find  many 
friends  to  beguile  the  way.  You  may  pick  them  up  at 
fairs,  on  festa  days,  like  blackberries. 

On  Santa  Caterina's  day,  the  30th  of  April,  there 
is  a  great  festa  in  the  coast  towns.  They  hold  the  saint 
in  especial  honour  on  this  shore,  for  she  did  much  kind- 
ness there  in  plague-time.  Vagabonds  with  wares  to 
sell  have  a  good  day.  There  was,  on  one  Santa  Ca- 
terina's day,  a  young  man,  with  a  small  donkey-cart  and 
a  small  child  and  a  disreputable  yellow  dog,  who  was 
selling  embroidery.  He  had  worked  it  himself ;  he  was 
working  at  it  even  now,  in  the  piazza  at  Varenzano, 
when  not  otherwise  engaged.  But  a  fair  is  too  pleas- 
antly distracting  a  thing  to  allow  of  much  needle-work 
being  done  in  the  middle  of  it.  There  are  so  many  in- 
teresting things.  There  are  the  roulette  tables,  round 
which  interested  but  cautious  groups  stand,  while  the 
owners  indefatigably  and  invitingly  twirl.  The  gam- 
bling instinct  is  not  excessively  developed  in  Varenzano. 
There  was,  of  course,  the  usual  resolute  and  solitary 
player,  who  stood  through  the  hours  silently  laying  one 
halfpenny  after  another  on  clubs,  untempted  to  any 
deviation  or  any  alteration  of  stake,  except  that  on  the 
infrequent  occasions  when  it  really  turned  out  clubs  he 
stolidly  laid  and  lost  his  gained  halfpennies  by  the  other. 
By  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  had  become  a  char- 
acter; spectators  nudged  new-comers  and  pointed  him 
out,  with  "  Sempre  fiori,  quello."  The  young  man  with 
the  embroidery  was  sorry  about  him;  he  had  an  ex- 
pression as  if  he  were  losing  more  halfpence  than  he 
could  well  afford.  The  young  man  himself  lost  all 
the  stakes  he  made ;  but  he  didn't  gamble  much,  know- 


ON  THE  SHORE  287 

ing  himself  not  lucky.  Instead,  he  watched  the  fluctu- 
ating fortunes  of  a  vivacious  and  beautiful  youth  near 
him,  who  flung  on  his  stakes  with  a  lavish  gesture  of 
dare-devil  extravagance,  that  implied  that  he  was  put- 
ting his  fortune  to  the  touch  to  win  or  lose  it  all.  It 
was  a  relief  to  notice  that  his  stakes  were  seldom  more 
than  threepence.  When  he  lost,  he  swore  softly  to 
himself :  "  Dio  mio,  mio  Dio,  Dio  mio,"  and  then  turned 
courteously  to  the  embroidery-seller,  who  was  English, 
with  a,  free  interpretation  —  "In  Engliss,  bai  George." 
This  seemed  to  the  embroidery-seller  to  be  true  polite- 
ness in  misfortune.  The  beautiful  youth  seemed  to  be 
a  person  of  many  languages;  his  most  frequent  inter- 
jection was,  "  Dio  mio  —  Holy  Moses  —  oh  hang !  " 
After  which  he  would  add  an  apology,  addressed  to  the 
embroidery-seller,  who  had  a  certain  air  of  refined  in- 
nocence, "  Bestemmiar,  no.  Brutio  bestemmiare. 
Non  gli  piace,  no"  and  resume  his  game. 

Peter,  who  was  selling  embroidery,  liked  him  so  much 
that  he  followed  him  when  he  went  to  try  his  luck  at 
the  cigar  game.  Here  Peter,  who  never  smoked,  won 
two  black  and  snake-like  cigars,  which  he  presented  to 
the  beautiful  young  man,  who  received  them  with  im- 
mense cordiality.  A  little  later  the  young  man,  whose 
name  was  Livio,  involved  himself  in  a  violent  quarrel 
with  the  cigar  banker,  watched  by  an  amused,  placid 
and  impartial  crowd  of  spectators.  Peter  knew  Livio 
to  have  the  right  on  his  side,  because  the  banker  had 
an  unpleasant  face  and  Livio  accused  him  of  being  not 
only  a  Venetian  but  a  Freemason.  The  banker  in  re- 
sponse remarked  that  he  was  not  going  to  stay  to  be 
insulted  by  a  Ligurian  thief,  and  with  violent  gestures 
unscrewed  his  tin  lady  and  her  bunch  of  real  lemons 
and  put  away  his  board.  Livio  burst  into  a  studied 
and  insulting  shout  of  laughter,  stopped  abruptly  with- 


288  THE  LEE  SHORE 

out  remembering  to  bring  it  to  a  proper  finish,  and  be- 
gan to  be  pleasant  to  the  embroidery-seller,  speaking 
broken  American  English  with  a  strong  nasal  twang. 

"  My  name  is  Livio  Ceresole.  Bin  in  America ;  the 
States.  All  over  the  place.  Chicago,  'Frisco,  Pull- 
man cars,  dollars  —  you  know.  Learnt  Engliss  there. 
Very  fine  country;  I  should  smile."  He  did  so,  and 
looked  so  amiable  and  so  engaging  that  the  embroidery- 
seller  smiled  back,  thinking  what  a  beautiful  person  he 
was.  He  had  the  petulant,  half  sensuous,  spoilt-boy 
beauty  of  a  young  Antinuous,  with  a  rakish  touch  added 
by  the  angle  of  his  hat  and  his  snappy  American  idioms. 

So  it  came  about  that  those  two  threw  in  their  lots 
for  a  time.  There  was  something  about  the  embroid- 
ery-seller that  drew  these  casual  friendships  readily  to 
him ;  he  was  engaging,  with  a  great  innocence  of  aspect 
and  gentleness  of  demeanour,  and  a  friendly  smile  that 
sweetened  the  world,  and  a  lovable  gift  of  amusement. 

He  had  been  wandering  on  this  shore  for  now  six 
months,  and  had  friends  in  most  of  the  towns.  One 
cannot  help  making  them;  the  people  there  are,  for 
the  most  part,  so  pleasant.  A  third-class  railway  car- 
riage, vilely  lighted  and  full  of  desperately  uncom- 
fortable wooden  seats,  and  so  full  of  warm  air  and  bad 
tobacco  smoke  that  Peter  often  felt  sick  before  the 
train  moved  (he  always  did  so,  in  any  train,  soon  after) 
was  yet  full  of  agreeable  people,  merry  and  sociable 
and  engagingly  witty,  and,  whether  achieving  wit  or 
not,  with  a  warm  welcome  for  anything  that  had  that 
intention.  There  is  a  special  brand  of  charm,  of  hu- 
mour, of  infectious  and  friendly  mirth,  and  of  exceed- 
ing personal  beauty,  that  is  only  fully  known  by  those 
who  travel  third  in  Italy. 

From  Varenzano  on  this  festa  day  in  the  golden 
afternoon  the  embroidery-seller  and  his  donkey-cart  and 


ON  THE  SHORE  289 

his  small  son  and  his  yellow  dog  and  Livio  Ceresole 
walked  to  Castoleto.  Livio,  who  had  a  sweet  voice, 
sang  snatches  of  melody  in  many  languages;  doggerel 
songs,  vulgarities  from  musical  comedies,  melodies  of 
the  street  corner;  and  the  singer's  voice  redeemed  and 
made  music  of  them  all.  He  was  practising  his  songs 
for  use  at  the  hotels,  where  he  sang  and  played  the 
banjo  in  the  evenings,  to  add  to  his  income.  He  told 
Peter  that  he  was,  at  the  moment,  ruined. 

"  In  Engliss,"  he  translated,  "  stony-broke."  A 
shop  he  had  kept  in  Genoa  had  failed,  so  he  was  thrown 
upon  the  roads. 

"  You  too  are  travelling,  without  a  home,  for  gain  ?  " 
he  inferred.  "  You  are  one  of  us  other  unfortunates, 
you  and  the  little  child.  Poor  little  one !  " 

"  Oh,  he  likes  it,"  said  Peter.  "  So  do  I.  We  don't 
want  a  home.  This  is  better." 

"  Not  so  bad,"  Livio  admitted,  "  when  one  can  live. 
But  we  should  like  to  make  our  fortunes,  isn't  it  so  ?  " 

Peter  said  he  didn't  know.  There  seemed  so  little 
prospect  of  it  that  the  question  was  purely  academical. 

They  were  coming  to  Castoleto.  Livio  stopped,  and 
proceeded  to  pay  attention  to  his  personal  appearance, 
moistening  a  fragment  of  yesterday's  "  Corriere  della 
Sera  "  in  his  mouth,  and  applying  it  with  vigour  to 
his  dusty  boots.  When  they  shone  to  his  satisfaction, 
he  produced  from  his  pocket  a  comb  and  a  minute  hand- 
mirror,  and  arranged  his  crisp  waves  of  dark  hair  to 
a  gentlemanly  neatness.  Then  he  replaced  his  pseudo- 
panama  hat,  with  the  slight  inclination  to  the  left  side 
that  seemed  to  him  suitable,  re-tied  his  pale  blue  tie, 
and  passed  the  mirror  to  Peter,  who  went  through  sim- 
ilar operations. 

"  Castoleto  will  be  gay  for  the  festa,"  Livio  said. 
"  Things  doing,"  he  interpreted ;  adding,  "  Christopher 


290  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Columbus  born  there ;  found  America.  Very  big  man ; 
yes,  sir." 

Peter  said  he  supposed  so. 

Livio  added,  resuming  his  own  tongue,  "  Santa  Ca- 
terina  da  Siena  visited  Castoleto.  Are  you  a  Chris- 
tian?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Peter,  who  found  the  subject  diffi- 
cult, and  was  not  good  at  thinking  out  difficult  things. 
Livio  nodded.  "  One  doesn't  want  much  church,  of 
course;  that's  best  for  the  women.  But  so  many  Eng- 
lish aren't  Christians  at  all,  but  heretics." 

They  came  into  Castoleto,  which  is  a  small  place 
where  the  sea  washes  a  shingly  shore  just  below  the 
town,  and  the  narrow  streets  smell  of  fish  and  other 
things.  Livio  waved  his  hand  towards  a  large  new 
hotel  that  stood  imposingly  on  the  hill  just  behind  the 
town. 

"  There  we  will  go  this  evening,  I  with  my  music, 
you  with  your  embroideries."  That  seemed  a  good 
plan.  Till  then  they  separated,  Livio  going  to  try 
his  fortune  at  the  fair,  and  Peter  and  Thomas  and 
Francesco  and  Suor  Clara  (the  donkey)  establishing 
themselves  on  the  shore  by  the  edge  of  the  waveless 
sea.  There  Peter  got  out  of  the  cart  a  tea-caddy  and 
a  spirit  lamp  and  made  tea  (he  was  always  rather  un- 
happy if  he  missed  his  tea)  and  ate  biscuits,  and  gave 
Thomas  —  now  an  interested  and  cheerful  person  of 
a  year  and  a  half  old  —  milk  and  sopped  biscuit,  and 
produced  a  bone  for  Francesco  and  carrots  for  Clara, 
and  so  they  all  had  tea. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  sun  dips  below  the  western 
arm  of  hills  that  shuts  the  little  bay,  leaving  behind 
it  two  lakes  of  pure  gold,  above  and  below.  The  sea 
burned  like  a  great  golden  sheet  of  liquid  glass  spread- 
ing, smooth  and  limpid,  from  east  to  west,  and  swaying 


ON  THE  SHORE  291 

with  a  gentle  hushing  sound  to  and  fro  which  was  all 
the  motion  it  had  for  waves.  From  moment  to  mo- 
ment it  changed;  the  living  gold  melted  into  green  and 
blue  opal  tints,  tender  like  twilight. 

"  After  tea  we'll  go  paddling,"  Peter  told  Thomas. 
"  And  then  perhaps  we'll  get  a  fisherman  to  take  us 
out  while  he  drops  his  net.  Santa  Caterina  should 
give  good  fishing." 

In  the  town  they  were  having  a  procession.  Peter 
heard  the  chanting  as  they  passed,  saw,  through  the 
archways  into  the  streets,  glimpses  of  it.  He  heard 
their  plaintive  hymn  that  entreated  pity: 

"Difendi,   O  Caterina 
Da  peste,  fame  e  guerra, 
II  popol  di  Cartoleto 
In  mare  e  in  terra  .  .  ." 

Above  the  hymn  rose  the  howls  of  little  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  who  had  been,  no  doubt,  suddenly  mas- 
tered by  his  too  high-spirited  lamb  and  upset  on  to 
his  face,  so  that  his  mother  had  to  rush  from  out  the 
crowd  to  comfort  him  and  brush  the  dust  from  his  curls 
that  had  been  a-curling  in  papers  these  three  weeks 
past. 

It  was  no  doubt  a  beautiful  procession,  and  Peter 
and  Thomas  loved  processions,  but  they  had  seen  one 
that  morning  at  Varenzano,  so  they  were  content  to  see 
and  hear  this  from  a  distance. 

Why,  Peter  speculated,  do  we  not  elsewhere  thus 
beautify  and  sanctify  our  villages  and  cities  and  coun- 
try places  ?  Why  do  they  not,  in  fishing  hamlets  of  a 
colder  clime,  thus  bring  luck  to  their  fishing,  thus  sum- 
mon the  dear  saints  to  keep  and  guard  their  shores  ? 
Why,  Peter  for  the  hundredth  time  questioned,  do  we 
miss  so  much  gaiety,  so  much  loveliness,  so  much  grace, 
that  other  and  wiser  people  have? 


292  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter  shook  his  head  over  it. 

"A  sad  business,  Thomas.  But  here  we  are,  you 
and  I,  and  let  us  be  thankful.  Thankful  for  this  lovely 
country  set  with  pleasant  towns  and  religious  manners 
and  nice  people,  and  for  the  colour  and  smoothness 
of  the  sea  we're  going  paddling  in,  and  for  our  nice 
tea.  Are  you  thankful,  Thomas?  Yes,  I'm  sure  you 
are." 

Someone,  passing  behind  them,  said  with  surprise, 
"  Is  that  you,  Margerison  ?  " 

Peter,  looking  round,  his  tin  mug  in  one  hand  and 
a  biscuit  in  the  other,  recognised  an  old  schoolfellow. 
He  was  standing  on  the  beach  staring  at  the  tea-party 
—  the  four  disreputable  vagabonds  and  their  cart. 

Peter  laughed.  It  rather  amused  him  to  come  into 
sudden  contact  with  the  respectable;  they  were  always 
so  much  surprised.  He  had  rather  liked  this  man. 
Some  people  had  good-temperedly  despised  him  for  a 
molly-coddle ;  he  had  been  a  delicate  boy,  and  had  cher- 
ished himself  rather.  Peter,  delicate  himself,  inca- 
pable of  despising  anyone,  and  with  a  heart  that  went 
out  to  all  unfortunates,  had  been,  in  a  mild  and  casual 
way,  his  friend.  Looking  into  his  face  now,  Peter 
was  struck  to  sorrow  and  compassion,  because  it  was 
the  face  of  a  man  who  had  accepted  death,  and  to 
whom  life  gave  no  more  gifts,  not  even  the  peace  of 
the  lee  shore.  It  was  a  restless  face,  with  hollow  cheeks 
unnaturally  flushed,  and  bitter,  querulous  lips.  His 
surprise  at  seeing  Peter  and  his  vagabond  equipment 
made  him  cough. 

When  he  had  done  coughing,  he  said,  "  What  are 
you  doing,  Margerison  ?  " 

Peter  said  he  was  having  tea.  "  Have  you  had 
yours  ?  I've  got  another  mug  somewhere  —  a  china 
one." 


ON  THE  SHORE  293 

As  he  declined  with  thanks,  Peter  thought,  "  He's 
dying.  Oh,  poor  chap,  how  ghastly  for  him,"  and  his 
immense  pity  made  him  even  gentler  than  usual.  He 
couldn't  say,  "  How  are  you  ? "  because  he  knew ;  he 
couldn't  say,  "  Isn't  this  a  nice  place  ? "  because  Ashe 
must  leave  it  so  soon ;  he  couldn't  say,  "  I  am  having  a 
good  time,"  because  Ashe  would  have  no  more  good 
times,  and,  Peter  suspected,  had  had  few. 

What  he  did  say  was,  "  This  is  Thomas.  And  this  is 
San  Francesco,  and  this  is  Suor  Clara.  They're  all 
mine.  Do  you  like  their  faces  ?  " 

Ashe  looked  at  Francesco,  and  said,  "  Rather  a 
mongrel,  isn't  he  ? "  and  Peter  took  the  comment  as 
condemning  the  four  of  them,  and  divined  in  Ashe  the 
respectability  of  the  sheltered  life,  and  was  compassion- 
ate again.  Ashe  cared,  during  the  brief  space  of  time 
allotted  to  him,  to  be  respectably  dressed;  he  cared  to 
lead  what  he  would  call  a  decent  life.  Peter,  in  his 
disreputability,  felt  like  a  man  in  the  open  air  who 
looks  into  the  prison  of  a  sick-room. 

Ashe  said  he  was  staying  at  Varenzano  with  his 
mother,  and  they  were  passing  through  Castoleto  on  the 
way  back  from  their  afternoon's  drive. 

"  It's  lungs,  you  know.  They  don't  give  me  much 
chance  —  the  doctors,  I  mean.  It's  warm  and  sheltered 
on  this  coast,  so  I  have  to  be  here.  I'd  rather  be  here, 
I  suppose,  than  doing  a  beef-and-snow  cure  in  one  of 
those  ghastly  places.  But  it's  a  bore  hanging  round 
and  doing  nothing.  I'd  as  soon  it  ended  straight 
off." 

Ashamed  of  having  been  so  communicative  (but  Peter 
was  used  to  people  being  unreserved  with  him,  and 
never  thought  it  odd),  he  changed  the  subject. 

"  Are  you  on  the  tramp,  or  what  ?  Is  it  comfort- 
able?" 


294  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  Very,"  said  Peter,  "  and  interesting." 

"  Is  it  interesting  ?  How  long  are  you  going  on 
with  it  ?  When  are  you  going  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  as  much  home  as  anywhere  else,  you 
know.  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  leaving  it  yet.  We 
all  like  it.  I've  no  money,  you  see,  and  life  is  cheap 
here,  and  warm  and  nice." 

"  Cheap  and  warm  and  nice.  .  .  ."  Ashe  repeated 
it,  vaguely  surprised.  He  hadn't  realised  that  Peter 
was  one  of  the  permanently  destitute,  and  tramping 
not  from  pleasure  but  from  necessity. 

"What  do  you  do? "  he  asked  curiously,  seeing  that 
Peter  was  not  at  all  embarrassed. 

"  Oh,  nothing  very  much.  A  little  needlework, 
which  I  sell  as  I  go  along.  And  various  sorts  of  ped- 
dling, sometimes.  I'm  going  up  to  the  hotel  this  even- 
ing, to  try  and  make  the  people  there  buy  things  from 
me.  And  we  just  play  about,  you  know,  and  enjoy  the 
roads  and  the  towns  and  the  fairs  and  the  seashore. 
It's  all  fun." 

Ashe  laughed  and  made  himself  cough. 

"  You  awfully  queer  person !  You  really  like  it, 
living  like  that?  .  .  .  But  even  I  don't  like  it,  you 
know,  living  shut  away  from  life  in  this  corner,  though 
I've  money  enough  to  be  comfortable  with.  Should  I 
like  it,  your  life,  I  wonder  ?  You're  not  bored,  it  seems. 
I  always  am.  What  is  it  you  like  so  much  ?  " 

Peter  said,  lots  of  things.  No,  he  wasn't  bored; 
things  were  too  amusing  for  that. 

They  couldn't  get  any  further,  because  Ashe's  mother 
called  him  from  the  carriage  in  the  road.  She  too 
looked  tired,  and  had  sad  eyes. 

Peter  looked  after  them  with  compassion.  They 
were  wasting  their  little  time  together  terribly,  being 
sad  when  they  should  have  found,  in  these  last  few 


ON  THE  SHORE  295 

months  or  years  of  life,  quiet  fun  on  the  warm  shore 
where  they  had  come  to  make  loss  less  bitter. 

Tea  being  over,  he  went  paddling,  with  Thomas 
laughing  on  his  shoulder,  till  it  was  Thomas's  bedtime. 
Then  he  put  Thomas  away  in  his  warm  corner  of  the 
cart,  and  Livio  joined  him,  and  they  had  supper  to- 
gether at  a  trattoria,  and  then  climbed  the  road  between 
vineyards  and  lemon  gardens  up  to  the  new  white  hotel. 

Livio,  as  they  walked,  practised  his  repertory  of 
songs,  singing  melodious  snatches  in  the  lemon-scented 
dusk.  They  came  to  the  hotel,  and  found  that  the  in- 
habitants were  sitting  round  little  tables  in  the  dim 
garden,  having  their  coffee  by  the  light  of  hanging 
lanterns. 

From  out  of  the  dusk  Livio  struck  his  mandolin  and 
sweetly  sang.  Peter  meanwhile  wandered  round  from 
group  to  group  displaying  his  wares  by  the  pink  light 
of  the  lanterns.  He  met  with  some  success;  he  really 
embroidered  rather  nicely,  and  people  were  good-natured 
and  kind  to  the  pale-faced,  delicate-looking  young  man 
who  smiled  with  his  very  blue,  friendly  eyes.  There 
was  always  an  element  in  Peter  that  inspired  pity ;  one 
divined  in  him  a  merry  unfortunate. 

The  people  in  the  hotel  were  of  many  races  — 
French,  Italian,  German,  and  one  English  family. 
Castoleto  is  not  an  Anglo-Saxon  resort;  it  is  small  and 
of  no  reputation,  and  not  as  yet  Anglicised.  Probably 
the  one  English  family  in  the  hotel  was  motoring  down 
the  coast,  and  only  staying  for  one  night. 

Peter,  in  his  course  round  the  garden,  came  suddenly 
within  earshot  of  cultured  English  voices,  and  heard 
some  one  laugh.  Then  a  voice,  soft  in  quality,  with 
casual,  pleasant,  unemphasised  cadence,  said,  "  Consid- 
ering these  vile  roads,  she's  running  extraordinarily 
well.  Eeally,  something  ought  to  be  done  about  the 


296  THE  LEE  SHORE 

roads,  though;  it's  absolutely  disgraceful.  Blake  says 
.  .  ."  one  of  the  things  that  chauffeurs  do  say,  and  that 
Peter  did  not  listen  to. 

Peter  had  stopped  suddenly  where  he  was  when  the 
speaker  had  laughed.  Of  the  many  personal  attributes 
of  man,  some  may  become  slurred  out  of  all  character, 
disguised  and  levelled  down  among  the  herd,  blurred 
with  time,  robbed  of  individuality.  Faces  may  be  so 
lost  and  blurred,  almost  beyond  the  recognition  of  those 
who  have  loved  them.  But  who  ever  forgot  a  friend's 
laugh,  or  lost  the  character  of  his  own  ?  If  Ulysses  had 
laughed  when  he  came  back  to  Ithaca,  his  dog  would 
have  missed  his  eternal  distinction. 

Soft,  rather  low,  a  thing  not  detached  from  the 
sentence  it  broke  into,  but  rather  breaking  out  of  it, 
and  merging  then  into  words  again  —  Peter  had  car- 
ried it  in  his  ears  for  ten  years.  Was  there  ever  any 
man  but  one  who  laughed  quite  so  ? 

Looking  down  the  garden,  he  saw  them,  sitting  under 
a  pergola,  half-veiled  by  the  purple  drifts  of  the  wis- 
taria that  hung  in  trails  between  them  and  him. 
Through  its  twilight  screen  he  saw  Denis  in  a  dinner- 
jacket,  leaning  back  in  a  cane  chair,  his  elbow  on  its 
arm,  a  cigarette  in  his  raised  hand,  speaking.  The 
light  from  a  big  yellow  lantern  swinging  above  them 
lit  his  clear  profile,  gleamed  on  his  fair  hair.  Opposite 
him  was  Lucy,  in  a  white  frock,  her  elbows  on  a  little 
table,  her  chin  in  her  two  hands,  her  eyes  wide  and  grey 
and  full  of  the  wonder  of  the  twilight.  And  beyond 
her  sat  Lord  Evelyn,  leaning  back  with  closed  eyes,  a 
cigar  in  his  delicate  white  hand. 

Peter  stood  and  looked,  and  a  little  faint,  doubtful 
smile  twitched  at  his  lips,  as  at  a  dear,  familiar  sight 
long  unseen.  Should  he  approach  ?  Should  he  speak  ? 
For  a  moment  he  hung  in  doubt. 


ON  THE  SHORE  297 

Then  he  turned  away.  He  had  no  part  with  them, 
nor  they  with  him.  His  part  —  Rodney  had  said  it 
once  —  was  to  clear  out. 

Livio,  close  to  him,  was  twanging  his  mandolin  and 
singing  some  absurd  melody: 

"  Ah,  Signer !  '? 
"Scusi,  Signora?" 
"  E  forse  il  mio  marito, 
Da  molti  anni  smarrito?  .  .  ." 

Peter  broke  in  softly,  "  Livio,  I  go.  I  have  had 
enough." 

Livio's  eyebrows  rose;  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
but  continued  his  singing.  He,  anyhow,  had  not  yet 
had  enough  of  such  a  good-natured  audience. 

Peter  slipped  out  of  the  garden  into  the  white  road 
than  ran  down  between  the  grey  mystery  of  the  olive 
groves  to  the  little  dirty  fishing-town  and  the  dark, 
quiet  sea.  In  the  eastern  sky  there  was  a  faint  shim- 
mer, a  disturbance  of  the  deep,  star-lit  blue,  a  pallor 
that  heralded  the  rising  of  the  moon.  But  as  yet  the 
world  lay  in  its  mysterious  dusk. 

Peter,  his  feet  stirring  on  the  white  dust  of  the 
road,  drew  in  the  breath  of  the  lemon-grown,  pine- 
grown,  myrtle-sweet  hills,  and  the  keen  saltness  of  the 
sea,  and  the  fishiness  of  the  little,  lit,  clamorous  town 
on  its  edge.  In  the  town  there  was  singing,  raucous 
and  merry.  Behind  in  the  garden  there  was  singing, 
melodious  and  absurd.  It  echoes  fleeted  down  the  road. 

"Ah,  Signer!  " 

"Scusi,  Signora?" 

"  El  forse  il  mio  marrito  .  .  ." 

Peter  sat  on  the  low  white  wall  to  watch  the  moon 
rise.  And  for  a  moment  the  bitter  smell  of  the  soft 
dust  on  the  road  was  in  his  nostrils,  and  he  was  taken 


298  THE  LEE  SHORE 

back  into  a  past  bitterness,  when  the  world  had  been 
dust  to  his  feet,  dust  to  his  touch,  dust  in  his  throat, 
so  that  he  had  lain  dust-buried,  and  choked  for  breath, 
and  found  none.  This  time  a  year  ago  he  had  lain  so, 
and  for  many  months  after  that.  Those  months  had 
graved  lines  on  his  face  —  lines  perhaps  on  his  soul  — 
that  all  the  quiet,  gay  years  could  not  smooth  out.  For 
the  peace  of  the  lee  shore  is  not  a  thing  easily  won ;  to 
let  go  and  drift  before  the  storms  wheresoever  they 
drive  needs  a  hard  schooling;  to  lose  comes  first,  and 
to  laugh  long  after. 

The  dust  Peter's  feet  had  stirred  settled  down;  and 
now,  instead  of  its  faint  bitterness,  the  sweetness  of 
the  evening  hills  stole  about.  And  over  the  still  sea 
the  white  moon  rose,  glorious,  triumphant,  and  straight 
from  her  to  Peter,  cleaving  the  dark  waters,  her  bright 
road  ran. 

Peter  went  down  into  the  little,  merry  town. 

He  and  Thomas  slept  at  an  inn  that  night.  Livio 
joined  them  there  next  morning  at  breakfast.  He 
said,  "  You  were  foolish  to  leave  the  hotel  so  soon.  I 
got  a  good  sum  of  money.  There  was  an  English  fam- 
ily, that  gave  me  a  good  reward.  My  music  pleased 
them.  The  English  are  always  generous  and  extrava- 
gant. Oh,  Dio,  I  forgot;  one  of  them  sent  you  this 
note  by  me.  He  explained  nothing ;  he  said,  '  Is  he 
that  was  with  you  your  friend  ?  Then  give  him  this 
note.'  Did  he  perhaps  know  you  of  old,  or  did  he 
merely  perceive  that  you  were  of  his  country  ?  I  know 
nothing.  One  does  not  read  the  letters  entrusted  to 
one  for  one's  friends.  Here  it  is." 

He  handed  Peter  a  folded-up  piece  of  notepaper. 
Opening  it,  Peter  read,  scrawled  unsteadily  in  pencil, 
"  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow  morning.  I  shall  be 
alone."  E.  P.  IT. 


ON  THE  SHORE  299 

"  He  followed  me  to  the  garden  door  as  I  went  away," 
continued  Livio,  "  and  gave  it  me  secretly.  I  fancy 
he  did  not  mean  his  companions  to  know.  You  will 
go?" 

Peter  smiled,  and  Livio  looked  momentarily  embar- 
rassed. 

"  Oh,  you  know,  it  came  open  in  my  hand ;  and  un- 
derstanding the  language  so  well,  it  leaped  to  my  eyes. 
I  knew  you  would  not  mind.  You  will  go  and  see  this 
milord?  He  is  a  milord,  for  I  heard  the  waiter  ad- 
dress him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter.     "  I  will  go  and  see  him." 

An  hour  later  he  was  climbing  the  white  road  again 
in  the  morning  sunshine. 

Asking  at  the  hotel  for  Lord  Evelyn  Urquhart,  he 
was  taken  through  the  garden  to  a  wistaria-hung  sum- 
mer-house. The  porter  indicated  it  to  him  and  de- 
parted, and  Peter,  through  the  purple  veils,  saw  Lord 
Evelyn  reclining  in  a  long  cane  chair,  smoking  the 
eternal  cigarette  and  reading  a  French  novel. 

He  looked  up  as  Peter's  shadow  fell  between  him 
and  the  sun,  and  dropped  the  yellow  book  with  a  slight 
start.  For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke;  they 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  the  pale,  shabby,  dusty 
youth  with  his  vivid  eyes;  the  frail,  foppish,  middle- 
aged,  worn-out  man,  with  his  pale  face  twitching  a  lit- 
tle and  his  near-sighted  eyes  screwed  up,  as  if  he  was 
startled,  or  dazzled,  or  trying  hard  to  see  something. 

The  next  moment  Lord  Evelyn  put  out  a  slim,  fine 
hand. 

"  How  are  you,  Peter  Margerison  ?  Sit  down  and 
talk  to  me." 

Peter  sat  down  in  the  chair  beside  him. 

Lord  Evelyn  said,  "  I'm  quite  alone  this  morning. 
Denis  and  Lucy  have  motored  to  Genoa.  I  join  them 


300  THE  LEE  SHORE 

there  this  afternoon.  .  .  .  You  didn't  know  last  night 
that  I  saw  you." 

"  No,"  said  Peter.  "  I  believed  that  none  of  you 
had  seen  me.  I  didn't  want  you  to ;  so  I  came  away." 

Lord  Evelyn  nodded.  "  Quite  so ;  quite  so.  I  un- 
derstood that.  And  I  didn't  mention  you  to  the  others. 
Indeed,  I  didn't  mean  to  take  any  notice  of  you  at  all ; 
but  at  the  end  I  changed  my  minde,  and  sent  for  yon 
to  come.  I  believe  I'm  right  in  thinking  that  your 
wish  is  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  our  family." 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter. 

"  You're  right.  You've  been  very  right  indeed. 
There's  nothing  else  you  could  have  done,  all  this  time." 

Peter  glanced  at  him  quickly,  to  see  what  he  knew, 
and  saw. 

Lord  Evelyn  saw  the  questioning  glance. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  boy.  Of  course,  I  knew  about  you 
and  Lucy.  I'm  not  such  a  blinde  fool  as  I've  some- 
times been  thought  in  the  past  —  eh,  Peter  Margeri- 
son  ?  I  always  knew  you  cared  for  Lucy ;  and  I  knew 
she  cared  for  you.  And  I  knew  when  she  and  you  all 
but  went  off  together.  I  asked  Lucy;  I  can  read  the 
child's  eyes  better  than  books,  you  see.  I  read  it, 
and  I  asked  her,  and  she  admitted  it." 

"  It  was  you  who  stopped  her,"  said  Peter  quietly. 

Lord  Evelyn  tapped  his  fingers  on  his  chair  arm. 

"  I'm  not  a  moralist ;  anything  but  a  moralist, 
y'know.  But  as  a  man  of  the  world,  with  some  ex- 
perience, I  knew  that  couldn't  be.  So  I  told  her  the 
truth." 

"  The  truth  ?  "  Peter  wondered. 

"  Yes,  boy,  the  truth.  The  only  truth  that  mattered 
to  Lucy.  That  you  couldn't  be  happy  that  way.  That 
you  loved  Denis  too  much  to  be  happy  that  way.  When 
I  said  it,  she  knew  it.  'Deed,  I  believe  she'd  known  it 


ON  THE  SHORE  301 

before,  in  her  heart.  So  she  wrote  to  you,  and  ended 
that  foolish  idea.  You  know  now  that  she  was  right, 
I  think?" 

"  I  knew  it  then.  I  was  just  going  to  telegraph  to 
her  not  to  come  when  I  got  her  letter.  ISTo,  I  didn't 
know  she  was  right;  but  I  knew  we  couldn't  do  it. 
I  didn't  know  it  for  myself,  either;  I  had  to  be  told. 
When  I  was  told,  I  knew  it." 

"  Ah."  Lord  Evelyn  looked  at  the  pale  face,  that 
had  suddenly  taken  a  look  of  age,  as  of  one  who  looks 
back  into  a  past  bitterness. 

"  Ah."  He  looked  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then 
said,  "  You've  been  through  a  bad  time,  Peter." 

Peter's  face  twitched  suddenly,  and  he  answered 
nothing. 

"  All  those  months,"  said  Lord  Evelyn,  and  his  high, 
unsteady  voice  shook  with  a  curious  tremor,  "  all  that 
summer,  you  were  in  hell." 

Peter  gave  no  denial. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Lord  Evelyn.  "  And  you  never 
answered  the  letter  I  wrote  you." 

"  No,"  said  Peter  slowly.  "  I  answered  no  letters 
at  all,  I  think.  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  I  did, 
through  that  summer.  I  suppose  I  lived  —  because 
here  I  am.  And  I  suppose  I  kept  Thomas  alive  — 
because  he's  here  too.  But  for  the  rest  —  I  don't  know. 
I  hated  everyone  and  everything.  I  believe  Rodney 
used  to  come  and  see  me  sometimes;  but  I  didn't  care. 
.  .  .  Oh,  what's  the  good  of  talking  about  it?  It's 
over  now." 

Lord  Evelyn  was  shading  his  face  with  a  shaking 
hand. 

"  Poor  boy,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  Poor  boy. 
Poor  boy." 

Peter,   recovering  his   normal   self,   said,    "  You've 


302  THE  LEE  SHORE 

been  awfully  good  to  me,  Lord  Evelyn.  I've  behaved 
very  badly  to  you,  I  believe.  Tbanks  most  awfully 
for  everything.  But  don't  pity  me  now,  because  I've 
all  I  want." 

"  Happy,  are  you  ?  "  Lord  Evelyn  looked  up  at  him 
again,  searchingly. 

"  Quite  happy."     Peter's  smile  was  reassuring. 

"  The  dooce  you  are !  "  Lord  Evelyn  murmured. 
"  Well,  I  believe  you.  .  .  .  Look  here,  young  Peter, 
I've  a  proposal  to  make.  In  the  first  place,  is  it  over, 
that  silly  business  of  yours  and  Lucy's  ?  Can  you  meet 
without  upsetting  each  other  ?  " 

Peter  considered  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes ;  I  think  we  can.  I  suppose  I  shall  always 
care  —  I  always  have  —  but  now  that  we've  made  up 
our  minds  that  it  won't  do  ...  accepted  it,  you  know. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  think  we  could  meet,  as  far  as  that 
goes." 

Lord  Evelyn  nodded  approval. 

"  Very  good,  very  good.  Now  listen  to  me.  You're 
on  the  roads,  aren't  you,  without  a  penny,  you,  and 
your  boy  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  make  a  little  as  I  go  along,  you  know. 
One  doesn't  need  much  here.  We're  quite  comfort- 
able." 

"  Are  you,  indeed  ?  .  .  .  Well  now,  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  be  more  comfortable  still.  I  want 
you  to  come  and  live  with  me." 

Peter  startled,  looked  up,  and  coloured.  Then  he 
smiled. 

"  It's  most  frightfully  good  of  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Rubbish,  rubbish."  Lord  Evelyn  testily  waved 
his  words  aside.  "  'Tisn't  for  your  sake.  It's  for 
mine.  I  want  your  company.  .  .  .  My  good  boy, 
haven't  you  ever  guessed,  all  these  years,  that  I  rather 


ON  THE  SHORE  303 

like  your  company?  That  was  why  I  was  so  angry 
when  you  and  your  precious  brother  made  a  fool  of  me 
long  ago.  It  hurt,  because  I  liked  you,  Peter  Margeri- 
son.  That  was  why  I  couldn't  forgive  you.  Demme ! 
I  don't  think  I've  forgiven  you  yet,  nor  ever  shall. 
That  is  why  I  came  and  insulted  you  so  badly  one  day 
as  you  remember.  That's  why  I've  such  a  soft  place 
for  Lucy,  who's  got  your  laugh  and  your  voice  and  your 
tricks  of  talk,  and  looks  at  me  with  your  white  face. 
That's  why  I  wasn't  going  to  let  her  and  you  make 
young  fools  of  yourselves  together.  That,  I  suppose, 
is  why  I  know  all  the  time  what  you're  feeling;  why 
I  knew  you  were  in  hell  all  last  summer;  why  I  saw 
you,  though  I'm  such  a  blinde  bat  now,  last  night,  when 
neither  Denis  nor  Lucy  did.  And  that's  why  I  want 
you  and  your  boy  to  come  and  keep  me  company  now, 
till  the  end." 

Peter  put  out  his  hand  and  took  Lord  Evelyn's. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  can  say  to  thank  you.  I  do 
appreciate  it,  you  know,  more  than  anything  that's 
ever  happened  to  me  before.  I  can't  think  how  you 
can  be  so  awfully  nice  to  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Enough,  enough,"  said  Lord  Evelyn.  "  Will  you 
or  won't  you  ?  Yes  or  no  ?  " 

Peter  at  that  gave  his  answer  quickly. 

"  No.     I  can't,  you  know." 

Lord  Evelyn  turned  on  him  sharply. 

"  You  wont?     The  devil  take  it !  " 

"  It's  like  this,"  said  Peter,  disturbed  and  apolo- 
getic, "  we  don't  want  to  lead  what's  called  respectable 
lives,  Thomas  and  I.  We  don't  want  to  be  well-off  — 
to  live  with  well-off  people.  We  —  we  can't,  d'you  see. 
It's  not  the  way  we're  made.  We  don't  belong.  We're 
meant  just  to  drift  about  the  bottom,  like  this,  and  pick 
up  a  living  anyhow." 


304  THE  LEE  SHORE 

"  The  boy's  a  fool,"  remarked  Lord  Evelyn,  throw- 
ing back  his  head  and  staring  at  the  roof. 

Peter,  who  hated  to  wound,  went  on,  "  If  we  could 
share  the  life  of  any  rich  person,  it  would  be  you." 

"  Good  Lord,  I'm  not  rich.     Wish  I  were.     Eich !  " 

"  Oh,  but  you  are,  you  know.  You're  what  we  mean 
by  rich.  .  .  .  And  it's  not  only  that.  There's  Denis 
and  Lucy  too.  We've  parted  ways,  and  I  do  think  it's 
best  we  shouldn't  meet  much.  What's  the  good  of  be- 
ginning again  to  want  things  one  can't  have  ?  I  might, 
you  know;  and  it  would  hurt.  I  don't  now.  I've 
given  it  all  up.  I  don't  want  money;  I  don't  want 
Denis's  affection  ...  or  Lucy  ...  or  any  of  the 
things  I  have  wanted,  and  that  I've  lost.  I'm  happy 
without  them;  without  anything  but  what  one  finds  to 
play  with  here  as  one  goes  along.  One  finds  good 
things,  you  know  —  friends,  and  sunshine,  and  beauty, 
and  enough  minestra  to  go  on  with,  and  sheltered  places 
on  the  shore  to  boil  one's  kettle  in.  I'm  happy. 
Wouldn't  it  be  madness  to  leave  it  and  go  out  and  begin 
having  and  wanting  things  again?" 

Lord  Evelyn  had  been  listening  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression of  comprehension  struggling  with  impatience. 

"  And  the  boy  ?  "  he  said.  "  D'you  suppose  there'll 
never  come  a  time  when  you  want  for  the  boy  more 
than  you  can  give  him  here,  in  these  dirty  little  towns 
you  like  so  much  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Peter,  "  how  can  one  look  ahead  ?  De- 
pend on  it,  if  Thomas  is  one  of  the  people  who  are 
born  to  have  things,  he  will  have  them.  And  if  he's 
not,  he  won't,  whatever  I  try  to  get  for  him.  He's 
only  one  and  a  half  now ;  so  at  least  there's  time  before 
we  need  think  of  that.  He's  happy  at  present  with 
what  he's  got." 

"  And  is  it  your  purpose,  then,  to  spend  all  your 


ON  THE  SHORE  305 

life  —  anyhow,  many  years  —  in  these  parts,  selling 
needlework  ? " 

"  I've  no  purpose,"  said  Peter.  "  I  must  see  what 
turns  up.  RTo,  I  daresay  I  shall  try  England  again 
some  time.  But,  wherever  I  am,  I  think  I  know  now 
what  is  the  happy  way  to  live,  for  people  like  me. 
We're  no  use,  you  see,  people  like  me ;  we  make  a  poor 
job  at  the  game,  and  we  keep  failing  and  coming  bad 
croppers  and  getting  hurt  and  in  general  making  a 
mess  of  things.  But  at  least  we  can  be  happy.  We 
can't  make  our  lives  sublime,  and  departing  leave  be- 
hind us  footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  —  oh,  I  don't 
think  I  want  to,  in  the  least  —  but  we  can  make  a  fairly 
good  time  for  ourselves  and  a  few  other  people  out  of 
the  things  we  have.  That's  what  we're  doing,  Thomas 
and  I.  And  it's  good  enough." 

Lord  Evelyn  looked  at  him  long  in  silence,  with  his 
narrowed,  searching  eyes,  that  seemed  always  to  be  look- 
ing for  something  in  his  face  and  finding  it  there. 

Then  he  sighed  a  little,  and  Peter,  struck  through 
by  remorse,  saw  how  old  he  looked  in  that  moment. 

"  How  it  takes  one  back  —  takes  one  back,"  mut- 
tered Lord  Evelyn. 

Then  he  turned  abruptly  on  Peter. 

"  Lest  you  get  conceited,  young  Peter,  with  me  beg- 
ging for  your  company  and  being  kindly  refused,  I'll 
tell  you  something.  I  loved  your  mother ;  my  brother's 
wife.  Did  you  ever  guess  that  ?  —  guess  why  I  liked 
you  a  good  deal  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  and  Lord  Evelyn  started. 

"  You  did  ?  Demme !  that's  her  again.  She  always 
guessed  everything,  and  so  did  you.  She  guessed  I 
cared.  .  .  .  You're  her  own  child  —  only  she  was 
lovely,  you  know,  and  you're  not,  don't  think  it.  ... 
Well,  she  had  her  follies,  like  you  —  a  romantic  child, 


3o6  THE  LEE  SHORE 

she  always  was.  .  .  .  You  must  go  your  own  way, 
young  Peter.  I'll  not  hinder  or  help  you  till  you  want 
me.  .  .  .  And  now  I'm  tired;  I've  talked  too  much. 
I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  lunch  with  me,  for  I  don't 
want  you.  Leave  me  now." 

Peter  paused  for  a  moment  still.     He  wanted  to  ask 
questions,  and  could  not. 

"  Well,  what  now  ?     Oh,  I  see ;  you  want  the  latest 
news  of  your  Denis  and  Lucy.     Well,  they're  doing  as 
well  as  can  be  expected.     Denis  —  I  need  hardly  say, 
need  I?  —  flourishes  like  the  green  bay  tree  in  all  his 
works.     He's  happy,  like  you.     No,  not  like  you,  a  bit ; 
he's  got  things  to  be  happy  about;  his  happiness  isn't 
a  reasonless  lunacy;  it's  got  a  sound  bottom  to  it.     The 
boy  is  a  fine  boy,  probably  going  to  be  nearly  as  beau- 
tiful  as  Denis,   but   with   Lucy's   eyes.     And   Lucy's 
happy  enough,  I  hope.     Knows  Denis  inside  and  out, 
you  know,  and  has  accepted  him,  for  better  or  worse.     I 
don't  believe  she's  pining  for  you,  if  that's  what  you 
want  to  know.     You  may  be  somewhere  deep  down  at 
the  bottom  of  her  always  —  shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
are  —  but  she  gives  the  top  of  her  to  Denis  all  right  — 
and  more  than  that  to  the  boy  —  and  all  of  her  to  life 
and  living,  as  she  always  did  and  always  must.     You 
two  children  seem  to  be  tied  to  life  with  stronger  ropes 
than  most  people,  an't  you.     Sylvia  was,  before  you. 
Not  to  any  one  thing  in  life,  or  to  many  things,  but 
just  to  life  itself.     So  go  and  live  it  in  your  own  way, 
and  don't  bother  me  any  more.     You've  tired  me  out." 
Peter    said    good-bye,    and    went.     He    loved    Lord 
Evelyn,  and  his  eyes  were  sad  because  he  had  thrown 
back  his  offer  on  his  hands.     He  didn't  think  Lord 
Evelyn  had  many  more  years  before  him,  though  he 
was  only  fifty-five;   and   for  a  moment  he  wondered 


ON  THE  SHORE  307 

whether  he  couldn't,  after  all,  accept  that  offer  till  the 
end  came.  He  even,  at  the  garden  wall,  hung  for  a 
moment  in  doubt,  with  the  echo  of  that  high,  wistful 
voice  in  his  ears. 

But  before  him  the  white  road  ran  down  from  the 
olive-grey  hills  to  the  little  gay  town  by  the  blue  sea's 
edge,  and  the  sweetness  of  the  scented  hills  in  the  May 
sunshine  caught  him  by  the  throat,  and,  questioning  no 
more,  he  took  the  road. 

He  loved  Lord  Evelyn;  but  the  life  he  offered  was 
not  for  Peter,  not  for  Thomas  as  yet ;  though  Thomas, 
in  the  years  to  come,  should  choose  his  own  path.  At 
present  there  was  for  both  of  them  the  merry,  shifting 
life  of  the  roads,  the  passing  friendships,  lightly  made, 
lightly  loosed,  the  olive  hills,  silver  like  ghostly  armies 
in  the  pale  moonlight,  the  sweetness  of  the  starry  flow- 
ers at  their  twisted  stems,  the  sudden  blue  bays  that 
laughed  below  bends  of  the  road,  the  cities,  like  many- 
coloured  nosegays  on  a  pale  chain,  the  intimate  sweet- 
ness of  lemon  gardens  by  day  and  night,  the  happy 
morning  on  the  hills  and  sea. 

For  these  —  Peter  analysed  the  distinction  —  are,  or 
may  be,  for  all  alike.  There  is  no  grabbing  here;  a 
man  may  share  the  overflowing  sun  not  with  one  but 
with  all.  The  down-at-heels,  limping,  broken,  army  of 
the  Have-Nots  are  not  denied  such  beauty  and  such 
peace  as  this,  if  they  will  but  take  it  and  be  glad.  The 
lust  to  possess  here  finds  no  fulfilment ;  having  nothing, 
yet  possessing  all  things,  the  empty-handed  legion  laughs 
along  its  way.  The  last,  the  gayest,  the  most  hilarious 
laughter  begins  when,  destitute  utterly,  the  wrecked 
pick  up  coloured  shells  upon  the  lee  shore.  For  there 
are  shells  enough  and  to  spare  for  all ;  there  is  no  grasp- 
ing here. 


308  THE  LEE  SHORE 

Peter,  with  a  mind  at  ease  and  Francesco  grinning 
at  his  heels,  sauntered  down  the  warm,  dusty  road  to 
find  Thomas  and  have  lunch. 


THE    END. 


A     000  046  293     7 


LORD'S  BOOK  STORE 

755  S.Olive  St.,  TU.3423 


R.  C.   LORD.  BOOK  CO. 

612    WEST   9TH    ST. 
LOS    ANGELES.    CALIF. 


